A Call to Arms
by Clementine Wind
Summary: War not only changes the paths of nations, but also the nation's leaders. When the newly formed Netherlands attacks France, Mary and Francis must evaluate what they would do to keep France safe. A Frary fic. *Not historically accurate.
1. Misconceptions

FRANCE

Waking up alone always felt blue. Detangling herself from the dregs of her dreams in a bed made for two that held only one was a curse that Mary hated second only to pulling herself out from underneath the covers. Mary held her eyes shut for a moment, not yet ready to acknowledge the arrival of a new day. She turned towards Francis's side of the bed. The mattress was cold, but when she forced her eyelids open there was a note on his pillow. _Good morning, my love_ — it read. _There are some matters I must attend to, but I will be back. I have a surprise for you. I'll tell you what it is on the way there. Love, Francis_.

Mary smiled at the smudges his left hand made as it travelled across the words it had already written. The language was made for the right handed people of the world, yet the special ones, like her Francis, managed to break free of the norm.

She brought the paper over to the table in the room and dipped a quill into the ink pot. She signed a swirling _I love you too_ before setting down her pen. It was a silly message she had written, one that Francis would doubtless never read, but it brought a fire into her heart. And this surprise Francis was talking about, well that would be an adventure. She started to draw absentmindedly. There was no better way to spend a morning than on one of Francis's adventures. Granted she had nearly lost a horse and a limb on the last one, but the way that his smile looked when he was outside of the world of the castle, that was what she loved the most about them.

The door to the bed chamber swung open, and footsteps echoed on the cold marble. "Good morning, my love," Francis said, nestling his face in the nook between her neck and her shoulder. Mary reached up to stroke his face.

"Good morning," She said.

"What are you drawing?" Francis said as he picked the note up. "Is it some sort of…some sort of…"

"I'm not quite sure what it is, it just happened I suppose," Mary said, painfully aware of her writing on the note. It was true that she loved him, and he knew that, but it was the writing of it that conveyed a sense of childishness she hated to acknowledge.

"Well," Francis said, "I think that it looks like an elegant serpent."

"A snake? The limit of my artistic abilities is a snake?"

"An elegant serpent is so much more than a snake. For example, only my wife has the skill to create such an elaborate drawing."

"Here, let me see," Mary demanded. Francis handed her the paper. She stared at it for a moment. "It's not quite an elegant serpent. I'd say it's more of…a speckled worm."

"A speckled worm? I thought you meant to envision something much grander."

"Unfortunately I can only work with what I'm given."

Francis smiled and took the note back from her. He folded it and put it in the pocket of his embroidered coat. "So," he said, "are you curious about my surprise for you?"

"Of course," Mary said.

"Well, like I said, I'll tell you exactly what it is on the way there, but one thing I will tell you is that you should change out of your nightclothes. And wear something you can move around in easily."

"Wonderful," Mary said. "Ladies's dresses have the most acclaimed mobility throughout all of France."

Francis put a hand on her shoulder. "I suppose, if you're open to the suggestion, Mary, I could lend you my wardrobe for the morning."

Mary rose out of her chair and planted a kiss on Francis's cheek. "My Francis. Always full of surprises. I think I will accept your offer. To adventure!" she declared.

* * *

Swords of various shapes and sizes lined the grey stone walls. They hung there, casting reflections of the rising sun onto the walls across from them. The rest of the room was bare except for a rack of still more swords and a table at the far end of the room. Inside were whetstones and polishers for metal and leather.

Laughter came from the hallway outside the door. "And you want to teach me to fight?" Mary asked.

"Well, it's not that I think that drawing worms or milking a goat is not a useful skill to have, but maybe growing acquainted with a sword would be more … applicable to you."

"With your mother it will be," she said. "One day I'm going to make you learn how to milk a goat. We'll go to a farm, and the King of France will sit on a stool and squeeze a goat's teats."

The doors opened, and Francis pulled Mary into the room. Mary's breath caught in her chest. "Oh, Francis," Mary said. "Did you make all of these?"

"All but the ones in that rack there."

"Francis, they're beautiful."

"I'm glad you think so. Choose one."

Mary pushed away from him to search his face. "What?"

"Pick a sword. I want you to have one. It'll be too long for you now, but I'll shorten it, and then it will be perfect for you."

"No, Francis, keep your swords. I couldn't take one away from you."

"Mary, look around. I have plenty. I want you to have one. Choose."

Mary bit her cheek. The shine of a sword broke her train of thought and her resolve. "Alright. I pick that one," she said and pointed to the sword casting the sun in her face.

Wordlessly, Francis stepped over to the wall and took down the sword. He held it for a moment, caressing the sweet whisper of metal. He did not say a goodbye to it, but rather smiled at its future. He walked it back to Mary, both hands extended. "For you," he said.

Mary reached forward and inserted her hands underneath the swords blade to lift it free of Francis's hands. She reached around and grabbed the sword's hilt. She stood there frozen as though she were a statue. She looked at the blade, looked at Francis, then looked back at the blade before she broke out in hysterics. "Oh, Francis," she said, "I have utterly no idea how I am supposed to hold this."

Francis chuckled. "Let me show you." He walked around behind her and wrapped his arms around her. "Move your right hand higher up on hilt, and put your left hand just after the pommel of the sword. Like so," he said as he slid her hands to their designated positions on the leather.

Mary pressed into him to feel his heat. "And how do I use it?"

"Here," Francis said. He pulled away from her, and Mary's back grew cold. He grabbed two swords from the wall. "We'll want to use these for now," he said, handing her one of the swords. These swords had dulled tips, and their edges were flat. Mary put the first sword back where it had come from and faced Francis. She put her right hand above her left and gripped the sword's leather hilt just the way he had shown her. "The first thing you have to learn is how to stand," Francis said. "Put your feet apart, slightly more than the distance of your hips, and bend your legs. Put your strongest foot in the back. Likely it's on the same side as the hand you write with." Francis demonstrated the stance as he explained it, and Mary copied it. "This way you are prepared for anything." Francis jumped forward, forcing Mary's feet to instinctively carry her back. "You see? Your mind already knows the basics of fighting."

Mary laughed. "I suppose that's true."

"Now there are specific areas you are looking to strike others and where your opponents are looking to strike you: the upper arms, shoulders, torso, and thighs." Francis tapped these spots on her body with his sword as he said them. She shivered at the cold kiss of the steel. "Of course, you also want to protect your neck," he said.

"There are four main attacks that your opponent will try to use," Francis continued. "All others are variations on these attacks, and can be defeated in the same method. The first one is this." He held his arms above his head with his wrists crossed. His sword extended from his arm like a viper poised to strike. "From this position I can twist my top arm down to cut your upper arm, ribs, or thigh. I can strike quickly and with such strength that it can be extremely hard to stop."

"Then how do I prevent a blow like this?" Mary asked.

"Put your sword up in front of you and move it forward. You will clash swords with me and slow down my blow."

"But you said I could not stop this attack. How would slowing it help me?"

Francis smiled. "This is the fun part. You moved your sword forward because it would slow me down faster, but also to gain more space. With my blow moving at a slower speed, you can flip your blade around mine by lifting your elbows. Here, try it."

He slowly took the blade over his head and began cutting towards Mary's ribs. Mary's brow furrowed in concentration as she moved her hands forward. Their blades clinked together. "Good," Francis said. "Now flip your blade over mine." Mary lifted her elbows and spun her sword around to tap Francis's side. "Now you're a true professional." Francis smiled at her.

The door banged open. Francis and Mary pulled apart from one another to face Bash. "Well," he said, "this is not quite the embarrassing entanglement I thought I would find you in this morning, but it might be just as good."

Mary blushed, and Francis said, "Bash," in the tone of voice so that Bash would know that Francis was displeased, but Bash smiled. Francis was blushing too.

"Anyways," Bash said, "Catherine has told me that the two of you are needed in the Map Room immediately. And she doesn't seem happy."

"Thank you, Bash," Francis said, clapping his hand on his brother's shoulder as Bash left. Francis turned toward Mary. "I suppose it's time to practice the art of verbal attacks."

* * *

"What do you mean Netherlands has struck at our borders?" Mary asked.

"Mary, I simply mean that the people who live in Netherlands have used weapons to take control of several towns on our shared border," Catherine de Medici replied.

"But why?" Mary asked.

"Why doesn't matter," Catherine snapped. "What matters is that Netherlands has tested your strength, Francis. You need to fight back. And what in God's name are you wearing, Mary?" Catherine asked with a look at Mary's trousers.

"It's not important right now, Catherine," Mary spat back.

"Mary, Mother, stop fighting for one moment, I need to understand what is happening here," Francis said.

"What's happening is that they are making a fool of France," Catherine said.

"Francis, look," Mary said. She pointed toward the huge map on the wall. "Those towns they attacked, what do they all have in common?"

Francis took in a sharp breath. "Oh, Mary Stuart, you are a genius. Mother, those are all towns with grain stores. They're not trying to invade France, they're trying to get grain. It's not surprising really, with the recent uprising. They've had a food shortage, and now with the revolt against Spain they have no where to turn for help."

"Francis, open your eyes," Catherine said, placing her hands on her son's shoulders. "I implore you to look beyond the surface of this situation. They have a revolt against _Spain_. France is what stands between Netherlands and _Spain_. Your sister is married to the King of _Spain_."

"Catherine, that's ridiculous. They're just trying to feed their families," Mary retaliated. "The answer to this situation is in a diplomatically negotiated trade deal. They are a new country, they don't know how to handle themselves. If France shows them the way, then Netherlands will be indebted to us."

Catherine scoffed at Mary. "Even if that's their only goal, you know that their plight is great. In order to invade France they must have exhausted all other resources. You want to offer a trade deal, Mary? The best terms they will offer you will be your life. France's grain stores cannot sustain two countries. Given the choice between slowly starving to death from sharing grain or thriving from taking it all, I assure you that they will choose to take all of our grain."

"Enough!" Francis slammed his hands on the table. Catherine's mouth closed slowly, words dying on her tongue. "I have made up my mind," Francis said. "France will send troops to the France-Netherlands border."

"Francis!" cried Mary.

"Thank you, my son," Catherine said as she caressed his cheek.

"But," Francis said removing his mother's hand from his face, "they are not going there to attack Netherlands. They are going with a negotiator, whom _I_ will inform of the acceptable terms, and they are going to see that the negotiator gets a meeting with whomever is leading Netherlands. Should there be fighting on the border at that time, the troops there will fight on behalf of France for the villagers there."

"But, Francis," the both of them said simultaneously. They stopped, looked at one another, and then Catherine dipped her head towards Francis. She exited quickly.

"Francis, is this what you think is best?" Mary asked. "Don't let me change what you feel. You have good instincts. Do you believe that they aren't coming for France, for you?"

Francis took her hands in his. "Mary, you and my mother never agree, but if there is one thing I know, it's that neither of you would put me, or France, in danger. I trust her, and I trust you. This is the best option for France."

Mary swallowed. "Alright then."

Francis tightened his grip on her hands. "Mary, I would never put you in danger. Never doubt that. Every decision I make is for France, but it is for you too."

"My life is not what I am concerned about," Mary said, caressing his face.

"I will be fine, Mary. France will be fine."

* * *

ON THE BORDER BETWEEN FRANCE AND NETHERLANDS

The flag of Netherlands whipped in the wind, attempting to tear itself off its pole. A man stood below it, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He wore a full suit of armor, and his cape flapped around him in an array of blues, whites, and oranges.

"My lord?" A soldier said as he approached the man from behind.

The man did not move from his statue like stance.

"My lord. There is news." The soldier hurried through his message, not pausing for interruptions he knew the man would not give. "The towns you sent us to take have been captured. The grain will be sent back immediately, and the weapon stores have been distributed among the men. France's soldiers have retreated. The negotiator's head is on a pike. The path toward Versailles and the throne of France is open."

"Look," the man said as though he had not heard the soldier at all. "What do you see?"

The soldier shuffled his feet. "My lord, well, I see France. All her rolling hills, her lakes, her fields. I see the skeleton of our neighboring country."

The man laughed. "A poet in our midst." The soldier blushed. "Poet," the man said, "what you see, what you say, all of France," the man turned to face the soldier, "that will be ours."

A fire flickered in the soldier's stomach as he stared into the face of William of Orange. He felt the glow of revolution that William of Orange had begun but years before in the country that was yet to be Netherlands, and now there was not just independence in the future, but the control of France. And William was going to lead them to it.

"Yes," the soldier said. "All of France."

* * *

FRANCE

Francis waved along the concoction of potions meant to cure him of his cough. When the king became ill the whole castle was either trying to save or poison him, and sometimes those who meant to save him were so hasty in their eagerness to do so that they ended up giving him poison. It was an occupational hazard. The main reason Francis didn't take one of their potions was because they always tasted like dirt or metal, and no one would willingly subject themselves to the hell of drinking one.

Mary reached over and took his hand. "Francis, how are you feeling?"

Francis squeezed her hand. "Better now than this morning, though I can't say the same of our situation with Netherlands. Our grains stolen, their men moving forward while ours move back. It's not a situation I like to be in."

"And the diplomat, Lord Hugh. The one you sent to negotiate with Netherlands at my urging. What will his family do? His wife must be in torment, but maybe the children are too young to understand. Francis, what do I do? Lord Hugh died for me."

"Lord Hugh died for France. He was a true hero, and his family knows that. We must do what we can to protect France. Meanwhile we have done what we can for his family. I will be here by your side for anything you need."

Mary lifted his hand and kissed it gently. "Thank you," she said.

Francis stood up and led her down the steps to the floor of the throne room. "For now, we must figure out what to do about Netherlands. My mother was right, they are threatening France. They must be halfway to the castle as we speak. Even now they might be-"

"Curtains!" Lyra screamed as she stormed into the courtroom. "My husband dead, for you, and your remedy is to change my curtains!"

Mary's stomach tightened. "Lady Lyra, please. I understand your pain. Lord Hugh was brave, and it seems that God is determined to take the best and bravest from us first."

"God did not take my husband," Lyra growled. "You did. You gave the order for him to march to the border. And what could you know of my pain? If you knew anything of my pain you would never ask another man to fight in your meaningless wars."

"Lady Lyra," Francis warned.

The spark of wildness faded in Lyra's eyes as she looked at Francis. "Your Majesty, I beg your pardon. It's just that he was my husband, you see? He was my world, and he is gone. No curtains, rugs, or portraits can cover up that fact." The words stumbled out of her mouth now. "He was the man I was sure would always be there at night to hold me, and to hear my troubles. And he was just here. He was just here, and I could have touched his hand one more time, and I could have told him that I loved him one more time. I could have apologized for all the things I had done wrong, and he could have smiled at me. Draperies will not place his head back on his shoulders, and they will not force air into his lungs. What use do I have for curtains if they cannot bring me back my life?"

Francis approached her and hesitantly stood before her. He reached out and took her soft hand. She looked at her hand and then back up to Francis. "It is always harder for whomever is left behind," Francis said. He looked up towards the high arches of the throne room. "Do the dead have regrets? Do they watch us from heaven and mourn us as we mourn them?" He looked at Lyra. "Do they know how strong we must to be to heal ourselves? Lady Lyra, there is much that I do not know, but I too have lost someone close to me. My father was not always the best king, but he was my father. Queen Mary lost one of her closest friends soon after she arrived in France. We do know your pain. I cannot speak for Mary, but if there is anything that I have learned from my father's death, it is that the wound will heal. It will take time, yes, and there will be days when you think that you cannot go on. But you will heal. Lady Lyra, accept our gifts, not as payment for your husband's death, but as our condolences. Stay at court with our blessing, and heal here where you can be near friends. Lord Hugh will be missed by us all."

When Francis released her hand it remained there, hovering in the air, for a moment. There were tears carving a path down her face. Francis turned before he let the same water prick his own eyes. Mary, too, felt his words weigh on her. Lady Lyra turned and walked from the throne room. Her footfalls punctuated the eerie quiet that was rarely present in the light of day. Mary draped an arm around Francis. "That was a beautiful thing you said to her."

Francis pulled Mary close and held her so that she could feel every beat of his racing heart. He took a breath and whispered into her neck, "I am afraid, Mary. That will not be the last time I say such a thing to a widow before this war is done. We need troops. We need men. We need lives, and I am afraid to ask for them."

Mary hugged him even closer. "I will be by your side."

* * *

Amelie wasn't in the castle when the order was issued. She had hung up her apron and walked in her sorry excuse of shoes on the King's Road to the village. She carried a pouch of gold pieces by the permission of King Francis, and it was that which she had placed in a hidden pocket of her dress. She covered the weight of the gold by bunching up fabric around the pocket.

There had been news of a Spanish merchant selling spices, which was her official business in the market, but there was also a young, scrawny boy. He had just passed fifteen, and his name was Tristian. Amelie had been sneaking scraps from the palace kitchens to give to him when they met in the marketplace. She couldn't, of course, give him the gold from the castle, but she provided for him. He was her brother after all.

The market was as it always was, hurried and crowded. Amelie's basket was filled with bones and crusts of bread as she searched for Tristian in the frenzy. She lifted her head in hopes of seeing a mop of red hair. With her neck extended and her eyes off the road, her foot caught on the road. She stumbled onto the man in front of her, barely saving herself from a fall.

"Watch your step," the man in front of her said.

"Sorry, sir," Amelie responded, hugging her dress around her. She was nearly past the man when she felt a pull on her dress and heard a rip. She spun around in time to see the last of the coins fall to the ground.

The man stood there, looking at the coins on the earth. "That's the King's coin," he said.

Amelie knelt to gather the coins. "I warn you," she said, "I am in the employment of the king, and this is the coin he gave me to buy spices for his meal. This is the property of the king, and should you take a single one of these twenty six pieces I will know and I will come after you."

The man laughed, "Of course, miss." Amelie blushed. "No, please," the man said, "I too am in the employment of the king. Very recently, I am afraid, but I will have time to spend his coins to enjoy what maybe the last days of my life. I understand what your situation is, no one trusts anyone carrying the King's coin unless he is the king himself. Though maybe I have not quite been in your predicament," the man said with a glance at Amelie's exposed leg.

Amelie blushed all the more furiously as she tried to cover her leg. "I would appreciate some help if you are in a position to give some," she snapped.

"Of course," the man said. He knelt down and scraped up the last few coins. "Here," he said, handing her a small leather pouch. "A bag to replace the one you lost."

"Thank you," Amelie said. "Please, what's your name?"

"Jerard," he replied. "And yours?"

"Amelie."

"Amelie." He rolled the word around in his mouth. He smiled. "You have a beautiful name, Amelie."

"Thank you," Amelie said. Jerard poured the coins into the bag, and Amelie added hers as well. She took the bag from him, then paused. "You said that you are recently employed by the king. What are you employed as?"

"The only work the king would ask of me," he said bitterly. "To become a soldier."

Amelie's heart stopped for a moment. "The king is conscripting?"

"Do the wars ever cease?"

"There is peace now. The wars have stopped. There was a skirmish up near Netherlands, but-"

"The king has declared war on Netherlands. He says that they are attacking our border. They are advancing toward Versailles as we speak."

"Versailles? The king will want every available soldier at the ready then."

"Every man over fourteen I am told."

Amelie swallowed. Tristian. "Thank you, sir. I'm sorry, but I must be on my way."

" 'Till next time then, eh?"

Amelie flashed a worried smile at Jerard before she scurried off toward the tiny room where Tristian lived.

She darted around the corner of the main street to the alleyway. Her feet guided themselves through the twists and turns of the path before she stood in front of a wooden door.

She knocked. "Celine? Celine, is Tristian in? Celine?"

The door swung open. An old woman with a forest of gray for hair stared at Amelie with her eagle black eyes. "You, young missy, are going to yell loud enough for the landlord down the street to hear that I've been keeping boarders. And then where will your brother be?" Celine turned into the house. "Dax," she said to the boy sleeping in the window well, "where's Tristian?"

Dax yawned and stretched his too short to reach the sides of the window well arms. "Tristian left," he said rubbing his eyes.

"Left?" Amelie asked. "Left where?"

"Not sure," Dax said. "Said he was going to protect us. Don't know what Tristian thinks he can protect us from."

"Dax, was Tristian carrying anything with him?" Celine asked.

"Everything from his corner. Had it all tied up in a sack he did. He took some bread too. I tried to stop him, but he pushed his way out and said his sister would bring us food. That was good enough for me. Did you bring us any food, Amelie?"

Amelie showed him the contents of his basket before handing it to Celine. "That will do fine," Celine said. "Don't know what the boy was thinking, taking bread like that without asking or paying for it."

"I think he was conscripted," Amelie told her.

Celine's glittering eyes went dead. "Conscripted?" she whispered. "No. No, they don't want boys Tristian's age. Sixteen, that's when they start taking them."

"I ran into a soldier in the marketplace. He told me they were taking anyone over fourteen."

"He would have left a note, something explaining where he went," Celine reasoned with herself.

"Tristian has always wanted to fight for the king. He wouldn't risk you dragging him out of camp by his ear," Amelie argued back.

"Dear lord," Celine said. "Dax, when did Tristian leave?"

Dax scratched his head. "It was…somewhere 'round…maybe…yesterday morning?"

"Yesterday morning!" Celine hollered.

"Well, he said not to tell anyone. He said he was going on a secret mission to save us.

He said you were going to be coming around, Amelie, and that he had to leave with his group before you got here."

"So he's gone," Amelie said, the life draining out of her.

Celine swallowed, and Dax looked around. "He'll be alright though, won't he?"

Amelie didn't answer.

* * *

The map of France had been laid out on the table and wooden figurines were positioned around the towns with troops. "If we send six companies to the front lines, we can contain them. Four should split to cover the two sides, and two ought to go right down the middle," Catherine said as she slid the wooden men toward one another.

"If we send two companies down the middle, they will see our men from miles off. Those men will be dead as soon as they're in range," Mary said. She picked up the men and put them back to where Catherine had moved them from.

"It's not a pleasant job, but somebody has to be be the bait," Catherine snapped. "Don't allow your soft heart to prevent my son from keeping his crown."

"My heart is not what is telling me what is wrong with this plan of yours, it is my eyes. You are wasting men here. Men who could be fighting elsewhere. You call me soft hearted as though you question my ability to rule," Mary said.

"Oh I do dear, but for your sake let's keep that between us." Catherine smirked at Mary.

"Catherine, take these men you are wasting and put them somewhere where they can be useful. Add them to the ones flanking the army of Netherlands. They can fight well there."

"They will die just as easily there as they would facing their enemies like real soldiers."

"You would sacrifice them for the sake of time."

"It's more valuable than gold, some would say."

"But the lives of these men are not."

"Mary, it is the duty of these men to protect their nation."

"It is mine and Francis's duty to protect our subjects."

"Then wrap your head around the cost, Mary. Two companies of men. It takes but two companies of men to ensure the safety of France, and you will not pay the price of peace."

"Not if it means killing these men, who, contrary to your belief, do _not_ have to die to save France."

"Then France will have no peace," Catherine said. "Mary, Francis sent us here to devise a strategy. He needs us to come to a solution, which will not happen if you continue sticking to your ill thought out strategy."

"My plan will save France and as many French subjects as possible."

"Well you certainly haven't had any qualms before about sacrificing unnecessary lives in a war before."

"If this is about the war in Scotland we don't have time for this. Later you can hurl your insults at me, Catherine, but, like you said, Francis needs our help now. And as soon as you stop fighting for your ridiculous plan, we can present him with what we agree upon."

"Fine. I am willing to agree on two companies down the middle with two companies on either side to surround the army of Netherlands."

"Catherine!" Mary slammed her hand on the table. "Have you not heard a single word I have been saying?" Catherine's blank face stared at her. Mary wrung her hands and stared at the ceiling. "Catherine, every fiber of my being is telling me not to do this, but I think we can come to a compromise. Three companies on the east, two on the west, with the river acting as another border, and _one_ company in the middle as bait." Catherine examined her nails. "Catherine, please!" Mary pleaded.

Catherine looked up at Mary, her mouth curved in a smirk. "Well no need to get testy, Mary. I suppose that something of that manner could be arranged." Mary let out a breath. "But I get to sit on your throne for a day," Catherine threw in. Mary glared at her. "Half a day," Catherine said. Mary leaned forward. "Three hours." Mary's hands tightened into fists. "Fine!" Catherine threw her hands in the air. "One hour."

Mary leaned back and rubbed her temples. "Fine."

Catherine smiled. "Let's go tell the king of our plan then, shall we?"

The room cleared itself for them when they entered because of a combination of Catherine's stare and Mary's cough. Francis flicked his hand to dismiss the attendant. "Francis," Catherine said once the room was empty but for them. "Mary and I have come to an agreement. We will have three companies-"

"Stop," Francis interrupted.

Catherine stepped back as her chest tightened. She looked at him, really looked at him. She saw his eyes were heavy, and his head was stooped. The wood in the arm of the chair seemed chipped where his fingers rested. His shoulders slumped, and it seemed as though the crown atop his head were crushing him. "What's happened?" she demanded.

Francis rested his head in his hands. "Netherlands," was all he said.

Mary walked up the steps to where he sat, and she knelt in front of him. "Francis," she said, "what's more is wrong with Netherlands?"

Francis gave a wry laugh. "What more is wrong?" he asked. He drew his hand down his face. "What more is wrong. Mary, Netherlands has slipped armies into our country."

"Yes," Mary said, "Catherine and I have come up with a plan to counter their attack."

"No, Mary. You came up with a plan to counter _one_ of their attacks. It's not your fault. The information never made it to court."

"Francis," Catherine said.

"Mother, Netherlands has slipped through our lands undiscovered. I don't know how, but they did it. They must have sent ships across the ocean because they infiltrated us from the north as well as the east. There may even be nobles here at court who are sheltering this foreign army. There is no one to trust, and now Netherlands is but at the castle door." Francis gripped his throne. "We are all but dead. France is all but lost."


	2. Love For a Sibling

FRENCH COURT

The smoke from the forges of the blacksmiths rose up to color the sky black and blot out the stars. Every moment of silence was compromised by the ring of the hammer against steel. War had seeped into the castle. Everyone lingered a moment longer when they said their goodbyes as if they were afraid it would be the last time.

Scouts went out every day to try and find the troops from Netherlands, but either no one saw them, or they just kept their mouth shut. Everyone had a guess as to where they were. Speculation ranged from half a day's ride to all the way back out to the border.

Court was in chaos. Half the lords had already ridden back to their homes in order to be with their families when the time came. Men who had promised to fight in the army deserted, confident that their bodies would not be missed in the carnage. The fear of what could lie in wait made it impossible to run the country, but Francis did not have the option of giving up.

He sat on his throne, that which leant its power to him and seemed so ominous to those who approached it. To him it seemed little more than a place to rest for a moment. It was a coffin in and of itself of a sort. It boxed him in on all sides and buried him in his duties. There were days when he barely had the energy to lift himself from the seat to make it to his chambers.

Today there was a seemingly endless stream of visitors, each complaining about the heightened taxes, burnt farms, or soldiers being torn from their homes. There were others too, others pushing for more money, more food, more men to fight against Netherlands. Francis's head spun with the calculations of risk, possible reactions, and reactions to reactions.

"A tonic for your cough, your majesty," the servant said. He proffered a silver tray with a tiny glass bottle on it. Francis took it and downed the mixture.

"Many thanks," he said. The servant bowed and left the room. "Who else?" He called out to the crowd of French subjects waiting to speak with their king.

A girl dashed into the room breathless. Sweat stuck her dress to her back as she doubled over. She lifted her head of greasy black hair. "Your Majesty," she began.

"There's a line, girl," a guard said as he advanced on the girl. "Get to the back of it."

The girl pulled herself up to her full height of five feet and one inch to stare down the guard. "I need to speak with the king," the girl said. "Now." The guard was not affected in the least by the girl's words or her stare.

"You'll wait your turn just like the rest of them," he said. "Get to the back before I bring you there myself."

"Wait," Francis said. The guard stared at him with shock. Francis nodded to the guard. "You may return to your post." The guard swallowed his pride and walked back to the entryway. "What is your name?"

The girl looked up. "Sibyla, your majesty."

Francis nodded. "You have shown yourself to possess a plethora of confidence to stand up to my guard, Sibyla. That may well get you killed someday, but it is also a quality I respect. So, girl, tell me. What is the news that you have brought to French court? What is the news that could not wait?"

Sibyla glowed with pride at the compliments from her monarch. She pulled herself taller again, but this was no challenge, merely an attempt to appear representable. "Your Majesty, I found the Netherlands's army."

A whisper swept through court. How had this girl, a mere child, find the army of the Netherlands when the king's scouts themselves could not?

Francis felt a pit drop into his stomach. They were here. It was childish to hope that they weren't, but he had hoped for that in a secret corner of his heart, and now that hope was dashed upon the rocks. "How," he demanded. "how do you know?"

"My sister and me, sire, we were exploring the woods and we saw tents. We followed them 'till they got really dense, and then we heard them speaking. There was this man, this Orange William? He was the one they were listening to. He was talking about attacking the castle, sire. My sister and me ran out of there, quick as we could, and when I told my ma about it she said to run here fast as my legs could carry me, and to talk to you. So I did."

Orange William. That had to be William of Orange. Francis had heard his name brandied about before. Rene of Orange had been a prominent man in politics, and had left everything to William, even his title. It had caused such a stir that the rumors had traversed the many miles to make it to French court. William had to be the leader of the army of Netherlands. But to rely on the word of a mere child…

"How do I know you truly saw the army of the Netherlands?"

"I saw them, your Majesty, I did. I swear on my immortal soul I saw them."

"I am sorry, but I cannot make decisions that could change the future of the nation based on the warning of a single girl."

"Making no decision could change the fate of the country," Sibyla argued back. "But there is also this." She reached around to her pocket and pulled out a scrap of orange, white, and blue cloth. "My sister, Evonne, she cut it off of one of the flags they had. When Ma saw it she said it was the mark of Netherlands."

It was a sign of Netherlands alright. It was the flag of the Prince of Orange, of William of Orange. Some men in the crowd subconsciously gripped their swords at the sight of it. Francis had heard tales, tales about how that flag had flown high over the carnage of the battle for independence in Netherlands. It was the flag of the rebels.

"Where did you see them?" he asked.

"The forest's next to my house. My ma's one of the gardeners here. We live two and a half miles from the southeast gardens."

"Two and a half miles?" That was close, much too close for comfort.

"Yes, your Majesty. But the soldiers were deep in the woods. They can't be closer than three or three and a half miles away."

"Can you find the camp again?"

"Yes, your Majesty. I can do that."

"Good," Francis said. "You will lead my brother, Bash, and three companies of men to the spot where these men are camping. Try and be discreet, do not let them know you are there. Once my men are in position you may go back to your mother's house and take her and your sister to the castle. You will stay here as guests until the battle is over. Is this understood?"

"Stay in the castle?" Sibyla said, her cheeks red with excitement.

"Yes, as a show of my gratitude."

"Of course!" Sibyla coughed, trying to hide her elation. "Of course, your majesty. Thank you."

"Thank you," Francis said. "You are doing your country a great service."

* * *

THE SOUTHEAST WOODS

The woods were not strange to Bash as they were to others. He had even ventured into the Bloodwoods, a place where few went in, and even fewer came out. These were not the Bloodwoods, but they held different dangers. It was an ideal spot for robberies, a place where it was easy to take one too many turns and find yourself hopelessly lost, and now a place for a foreign army to make camp.

"You are sure they are here?" He asked Sibyla.

"They're just through those rocks there." Sibyla pointed through a narrow pathway

surrounded by tall stones.

Bash paused. Even looking at that path made him feel uneasy. "We ought to go around," he said. "If we went through there and were attacked, then we would be easily overwhelmed. They would have the advantage of height, and we would be stuck single file. Each escaping man would have to fight the full force of the Netherlands army by himself."

Sibyla swallowed. "Of course," she said. "Whatever you think is best. Did you want to go that way?" She pointed up a steep slope that climbed over the ridge of rocks. Bash nodded. "Let me scout it for you," she said. "I can find any places where a horse might miss a step and break a leg. Besides, your men should rest for a while."

Bash hesitated, but without a reason to object, he nodded his approval.

Within seconds Sibyla was scrambling over the rocks. Once she was out of sight of Bash's soldiers, she stood on the tallest of the rocks and placed two fingers in her mouth. She blew hard, and a high pitched whistle fell into the forest. Satisfied, she climbed back down and returned to Bash and his men.

"All clear?" Bash asked.

"Yes," Sibyla said. "All clear."

* * *

"And you are sure that that sister of yours will deliver the message, Evonne?" a soldier snarled through the bars of the makeshift prison.

The girl curled in the corner could smell the alcohol coming off the soldiers breath in waves. She nodded her head. "Yes," she said. "Yes. Sibyla wouldn't leave me."

"Alone? In the middle of an encampment of enemy soldiers? Too late. She already did."

Evonne's eyes flashed. "She left because you made her. She left because you threatened me. She will do what you told her to."

The soldier laughed. "Sisterly love. I suppose it's simple nowadays, just wait until you grow up."

Evonne jumped to her feet. "Sibyla won't leave me!" she yelled.

"Works for me, my young friend. Just as long as she gets us what we want." The soldier took another swig from the bottle.

The flap of the tent flew open, and William of Orange strode in. The soldier attempted to pull the bottle from his lips, cap it, and hide it in his garment before William saw it. Some of the alcohol went down the wrong way and left him coughing for air in a way that was even more incriminating than the bottle William saw flash before his eyes. William glared at the soldier. "You there," he said. "We are in enemy territory. There is to be no alcohol here, especially when one is with a prisoner." The soldier ducked his head in shame. William sighed. "Leave us," he said to the soldier. The soldier darted out, glad to be free of William's stare.

Silence filled the tent as William stared at Evonne. Evonne huddled against the wooden bars that ran all the way around her, fencing her into her cage like a wild animal. She pointedly stared away from William.

William crouched down until his face was on the same level as the girl's. "Evonne, is it?" Evonne didn't acknowledge him. "Evonne," William said, "Evonne, do you know why you're here?" Evonne finally moved. She twisted her head to stare directly into William's eyes, and then spat on the dirt ground. William nodded. "That's to be expected I suppose. Do you know why we're here? Netherlands?"

"You want to take our land. You want to take our money. You want to take our food. You want everything we have."

"No, we don't, Evonne. All we want is for you to help us when we are in need. We would help you too. It would be like an alliance between our two nations. Mutually beneficial in all ways. Yes, we would ask you to support our shared government, but no more so than you currently support the King of France."

"Why can't you just form a normal alliance then? Why not meet with the king and bargain with him? Why come into our country and fight him? Why steal our grain, burn our barns, and take our lives?"

William swirled his finger in the dirt. "Evonne, I wish it were that simple. You see, Netherlands is a fairly new country. Other countries won't respect it yet. If we made a deal with France we would get the worse part of the deal by far, and I can't allow that for my subjects." He lifted his finger from the dirt and stared at Evonne. "Don't you see, Evonne? We wouldn't ask anything more of you than your current king. Nothing would have to change. In fact we would have less blood spilled if everyone just agreed. Together we are stronger. Nothing could tear us apart."

"But you would kill our king," Evonne said.

"Only if he becomes a threat to our joint rule," William said. "And besides, what have your kings brought you? King Henry nearly cost you all your lives with his war on England, and King Francis shoved an unnecessary war on France, all to protect his beloved wife's country. Think, Evonne. Was all that spilled French blood necessary? What makes her crown worth so much more than all of your lives? Netherlands would never do what your kings have done."

"King Francis rules over all of us. He is my king."

William stood up, fire flashing in his eyes. "When will you Frenchmen stand up and see that a king that does not put his people's interests before his own is not a king at all? The people of Netherlands understood that, and out of the fire of revolution they made a real monarchy. This is not just a war for Netherlands. This is a war for the people."

"Then why won't you let the people choose? Why won't you listen to what the people want? Frenchmen want France. We want King Francis!"

"Then hope is lost for France!" William spat. "The French do not know how to think for themselves, so I must think for them. Without me, you would grovel under a tyrants despotic rule. Watch me, French girl, watch me as I forge your pathetic nation into a country that can act and think."

"I won't stand with you," Evonne said.

"No," William said, "but your sister will. She will betray her nation and her king to save your life. Poor girl. She probably thinks that we'll let you go."

Evonne tucked her face in between her knees. William was right. Sibyla was going to ruin France, all to save her. Her stomach tightened, and it was all she could do to prevent herself from puking. How many would die because of her? All because she had wanted to investigate. She would be the cause of deaths. And they would kill her too. They would kill her, and then they would kill Sibyla.

A whistle echoed through the silence. William cocked his ear, and a smile spread across his face like a spot of water running through a cloth. "Well, French girl, your time will come soon. France will rise from the pitiful mess that it is. I will lead it to glory. That whistle beckons death to your country as you know it."

The snake-like smile on William's face made Evonne grow cold. She felt his toes turn to ice, then her calves. The cold creeped up her body until she was completely unaware of any touch, any sound, anything but the smile on William's face. Evonne gathered herself to her feet, brushed off her dress, and released the roar that had been building in her chest. "No!" she screamed. She fell upon the bars. The wooden slats shook beneath her weight, and William took a step back, the smile falling off his face in pieces. Evonne relentlessly pounded on the bars without care to the state of her hands. "You will not tear us down!" she clamored.

"Guards!" William called.

"Get in here and fight me yourself!" Evonne yelled. The twelve year-old girl challenging the twenty seven year-old man, she was hopelessly outmatched. But her rage, oh her rage shook William to the core.

"Guards!" William called again. A soldier came stumbling in, sword in hand. "Subdue her. I want you here until the battle is over. When it's done, kill her."

The soldier nodded and approached the bars. "Get back," he said. Evonne snarled at him. "Get back I said." The solder turned the sword to batter Evonne's hands with the hilt. A crack echoed through the tent as Evonne fell back.

William's eyes were trapped by Evonne's. The girl cradled her bloodied hand, it was no doubt broken, but her glare was no less intense. "You will pay if you hurt my country," Evonne said.

William tore himself from Evonne's gaze. The soldier looked to him, waiting to see if there was anything else he needed. William squeezed his fear into the darkest corner of his soul. There was only anger left behind. "I am going to fight the king's men, who, courtesy of our friend here, will be brought straight to us. When her sister gets here to collect her," he said, "kill her too."

* * *

FRENCH COURT

Francis paced the nearly empty throne room, his crown pushing down harder on him with every step. Mary watched him, her hands fidgeting with nerves. "It's been far too long since Bash left with his men. He should have been back by now. The force I sent was too small to be noticed, there couldn't have been a confrontation," Francis said.

"Perhaps he saw an opportunity to evict these intruders from our lands and seized it," Mary reasoned.

"So long as this opportunity did not cost my brother his head," Francis said.

"Come clear yours," Mary said, holding out her hand. Francis paused and looked at her for a moment before letting out a breath he had not known he was holding. He took her arm. "It will do both of us good to get out of this stuffy throne room. We'll be able to think about this more clearly," Mary said as she led him out of the throne room. Their footfalls echoed down the hallway. "How do the north gardens sound?" she asked.

Francis smiled weakly at her, his mind still occupied with what had happened in the woods three and a half miles from the southeast gardens. Mary squeezed his arm, knowing perfectly well what was running through his mind. She saw it in his face, in the way he held himself, and in the way he was holding her arm a little more tightly than usual, but she knew it most of all because it was exactly what was running through her mind.

Heavy footfalls shattered their companionable silence. A King's Guard ran through the stone hallways and skidded to a stop before them. "Your Majesties," he said, "you must go back into the throne room. You mustn't leave there for a while at least."

"And why _must_ we do that?" Mary asked, indignant at a guard throwing orders at her, his queen.

The guard never faltered. "The Netherlands's army, they're here. They're right outside the gate, your Majesty."

"They're what?" Francis asked. He felt as though someone had struck a blow right to his chest.

"They're here, your Majesty. A guard saw some lights and summoned someone to go investigate. That person didn't come back, your Majesty, not in one piece anyway. His head rolled to a stop right outside our gate." Francis tensed against Mary's arm. She swallowed and forced herself to keep upright. The guard faltered. "Your Majesty, there's more. That girl you sent, Sibyla, they sent her head too. There's one other, a girl who looks only a touch younger than the other."

"The sister," Mary whispered.

"That's what we thought," the guard said. The night suddenly felt colder.

Francis straightened himself to his full height. There were things that a king was meant to do, and things that a king was not meant to do. He would not allow himself to sit in the fear their act of atrocity lent him. "Are their troops concentrated at the south gate?" Francis asked. "We could lead troops from the north gate, go around both ways and fight them as soon as the sun's first rays are upon us."

The guard shook his head. "Your Majesty, I am afraid that they aren't concentrated at the south gate, or at any gate. They are everywhere, your Majesty. Only a few held the torches that the guard at the south gate saw. The rest slid in and were not noticed until it was too late. They are just out of bowshot, but they have enough men to encompass us. They can easily wait until we run out of food or water."

Mary snapped. "How could this happen? This castle is meant to protect us, not cage us. How did your men miss an incoming swarm of armed men, and where are the other soldiers, the French soldiers, our soldiers? France has strength, stability, allies. How could Netherlands waltz into our country and force us to capitulate with one stroke?"

The guard lowered his eyes, afraid to meet the blazing inferno in the queen's. Francis grabbed her shoulder. "Mary," he said. "Mary, please." He felt her anger fizzle out of her.

A coil of fear gathered in his stomach. His brother was out there. His brother, whom he had spent his childhood with. Who had shown him how to filch food from the kitchens when the cooks weren't looking. Who had distracted their father from Francis when Henry was boiling with rage. Who had shown him that there was hope for the future when Francis had been heartbroken. Bash was out there.

"Any news of the men that went out to find the army? What of them?" he asked.

The guard pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. It was speckled with blood and was crinkled as though it had recently dried from a water spill. The guard's face was strained as he said, "This was found in Sibyla's mouth."

Francis reached out to take the paper from the guard. "Thank you," he said. He closed his eyes to the dim glow of the grand hallway. The guard bowed and returned the way he had come.

"Francis, you're shaking," Mary said. He felt her warmth press into him.

Francis sucked in a tumultuous breath. "Read it to me," he said. "Please, Mary, I can't read it myself if it tells of my brother's death. Read it to me."

She took it from his hand. She shifted against his arm. The paper rasped as she unfolded it as if it were a beast taking its first breaths. "King Francis II Valois," she read, "your troops are scattered throughout your lands. We control your communication to them. You cannot beat us. Surrender." Her breath caught in her throat. "Give up your crown for the good of your people."

For the good of your people. Her words echoed in his head. The faces of his subjects flashed before Francis on the backdrop of his eyelids. There were so many people depending on him to keep them safe. So many people needed his help. If he refused to surrender, the cost would be lives. But what of Netherlands? Would they keep his people safe? The head of the only person known to have seen them lay just beyond the castle walls. And the others who were supposed to find them…

"What of my brother? What does it say of Bash?"

"Your forces cannot defeat us. We have proven that today," Mary said. Her voice hitched on proven. Their forces had not been enough. Their forces could not keep Bash safe. "Francis," she said. "Francis, here. Read it." She placed the paper back into his hands.

"Please, Mary, please do not force me to read this."

"Francis, trust me, this you do want to read yourself."

He pulled his ten pound eyelids open. The paper sat there, just as ominous as ever. It was coarse in his hand. He took another breath and unfolded the paper. _As a gesture of good faith, we have not killed your men, but kept them prisoner._ Tears of relief pricked Francis's eyes. _We will allow contact with the man your soldiers have identified as the king's brother._

 _But it will not be you, King Francis, that is allowed this contact. Nor will it be one of your men. Rather you will send the Queen of France into our camp. It is time you returned our act of faith. I guarantee her safe passage. She will be allowed five minutes with your brother. If you agree to our terms, you will let her out of the south gate at dawn. From there my men will escort her to our prisons._

 _I doubt that you will be inclined to let her out, but you must. If she does not come to talk to your brother, I will attack the castle and slaughter our prisoners. A battle here will be bloody, and neither you nor I have men to spare, but I can assure you that I will prevail as easily as I did when I captured your men today. I will see your queen at dawn, King Francis._

 _Prince William of Orange_.

Francis folded the note back up. Mary stared at him with imploring eyes. "Absolutely not," he said.

"Francis, we haven't even talked about this," Mary argued.

"Absolutely not, Mary," Francis said. "I will not allow you to walk undefended into an enemy camp. You are too important to this nation. I cannot allow this to happen."

"It won't help the nation if the castle is attacked and the king and queen are both dead," Mary said. "France needs me to take this risk."

"It is not a risk I will let you take."

"Do you say that for France or for yourself?" Mary's eyes bored holes into Francis. The pressure of her gaze forced Francis to turn his head. "Francis," Mary said, her voice soft, "we are rulers. You must put aside your love for me for the good of the country." Francis scoffed. Those were William's words, for the good of your people, for the good of your country. What had those words brought him but pain and misery?

"We need this," Mary said. "France needs this. I can gain valuable knowledge from Bash, I'm sure he's seen something. And I'm not defenseless. I can protect myself."

Francis looked down at the note in his hands. "Mary, there is another way. We will find another way."

Mary took the note from his hands and folded her fingers around his. "There is no other way, Francis. We have spent our whole lives thinking that maybe we can find another way to make things work. Sometimes it has, but, Francis, think. More often than not things fall apart, and the only path is the one offered us. The stakes are too high on this one, Francis. We can't let this one fall through."

"Mary, I won't let you," Francis said, but his words were weaker now.

Mary lifted her hand to cup Francis's face. He instinctively leaned into her warm, familiar touch. "I know," she said. "I know you don't want to. But, Francis, you have to. For France. Give us a chance, Francis. This is a risk, but it does not mean that I will not return. I promise you, Francis, I promise that I will come back to you."

"Mary," he said in one last attempt to fight her determination.

"I will come back." Each syllable she said was articulated and strong. Her words pushed his heart, trying to force him to put his love for his country above his love for her. That was what Francis had always envisioned when he pictured himself king. He thought he would be a king above a husband, but what made him nod was not France, it was her. His uncompromising belief in her and her power and her promise.

Responsibility settled in her heart, and Mary wondered whether or not she believed herself. France needed this. Francis needed this. She would do it for him. She lifted herself on her toes and leaned forward to kiss him. "I love you, Francis," she whispered.

* * *

"Jerard?"

The uniformed soldier turned to face her. His feet were lead in his shoes, and his stomach clenched for fear of what he was about to tell her. Fear was the wrong word, it wasn't fear, it was regret. He stayed there, looking at Amelie's face, memorizing how she looked in this instant. Her hair floated on her shoulders in soft, auburn curls. A smile played on her lips, and her heart was still bright as a daisy. There was fear, there was always fear in the castle now, but she was alright.

"Jerard, is that you?" Amelie put down the tray she was delivering and padded over to him. "Jerard? Oh I didn't think I'd see you again, how are you?" He didn't answer. "Oh, do you not remember me? It's okay if you don't. We only met each other at the market a few weeks ago. I ripped my dress?" she prompted.

Jerard forced a smile to his lips. "I remember you," he said.

Amelie let out a breath. "Good. That would have been incredibly embarrassing." She looked up at him, waiting for him to say something to shatter the silence that was growing harsher by the second. The weight in Jerard's chest gained a pound each time she looked at him. "How was the war?" She said, attempting to reconstruct some semblance of conversation. "I can't imagine it's pleasant, and they'll need you back with the soldiers out front…" Her eyes narrowed and a line appeared between her eyebrows.

"What _are_ you doing in the castle?" she asked. "They need every man ready to defend the castle. Why are you here?"

It was time. The words were sluggish as they made their way from his mouth. "Amelie, I met a boy named Tristian when I was fighting at the front. He wouldn't stop talking about his sister. He said that she worked in the palace kitchens, and he talked about the times that she took care of them when he was sick. He talked about her ferocity, and then I knew that the girl he was talking about was you."

He could see the bud of worry working its way up to her heart. He couldn't watch this any longer. He couldn't watch her as she realized what he was about to tell her even before he said it. He couldn't watch as that hateful bud blossomed into pain. "Amelie, two days after I met your brother at the front, I watched him die."

The flower of worry encircled her, plunged through her heart, and expanded at her throat. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Her body was frozen, not moving, not blinking, not breathing. The half smile was still on her face even as gravity pulled the corners of her mouth down. Her throat trembled.

He couldn't watch this. Jerard's heart pounded. "I have to go," he said. He turned, ready to flee until and iron grip circled his hand. His blood ran cold.

"Who do you think you are?" Amelie said, her voice shaking and frozen. "What gives you the right? You knew my brother for two days, you knew me for five minutes, and now you think you have the right to come here and tell me, without a shred of evidence, that my brother died? You come here and shatter my world, and then you think you have the right to leave?"

"Amelie, you need time. You need space," Jerard reasoned.

"No, I don't. I don't need any of that. What I need is my brother. The men in the army should be released a few days. I'll go talk to him then, and I'll have to bring them food again, he'll be hungry…"

Jerard reached in his pocket and drew something out. He pressed it into Amelie's palm. "Amelie," he said without taking his hand out of hers, "your brother is dead."

Her hands were shaking when he pulled his hands away. She uncurled her hand and looked down. A string tied auburn hair the same color as her own together with a small note. The frail piece of paper was weightless in her hands. She almost couldn't feel the texture of the paper. It seemed as though there was an eternity between her fingertips and the paper. She turned the paper over.

 _Tell my sister I love her_.

"I found this among his things," Jerard said.

Amelie felt tears prick at her eyes. She couldn't cry. Not here, not in front of him. Her breaths were fast and ragged. "Thank you," she said. "I have to go." She splintered her feet from where they join date floor and ran. She didn't know where. She didn't know where was safe.

Her arms flung open the door to the kitchens. It was deserted at this hour. The shadows pulled along the walls and filled every corner. Moonlight strode through the window, but Amelie didn't see this. Not tonight.

She collapsed on the sack of flour before she finally let herself fall apart. The thorns of the flower inside her ripped along her chest mercilessly. She opened her palm and saw the note tied around the auburn hair. It didn't smell like him. It smelled empty. Alone. It smelled like the salt pouring down her cheeks. She pulled her hands around his hair and dug her fingernails into the skin of her palm, trying to hold him again, to see him, to know that she still had him even though they had lost their parents. She tried to stop the feeling that was growing in her chest, the feeling that she was alone in the world.

 _Tell my sister I love her._

He told her loved her, and she would never be able to tell him the same.


	3. Faith

**_author's note: Hey guys, I'm sorry it's taken me this long to update. These last few weeks have been hectic, but after next week I hopefully won't have as much on my plate and will be able to write some more. Sometimes I will take actual lines from the show and put them in here, but I do not own them in any way, shape, or form. Thank you all so much for reading this story I've written, and if you can spare a moment to review, that would be incredibly helpful! Now I'll stop talking(?) and let you read what you came here to read. Enjoy :)_**

* * *

THE EDGE OF THE FRENCH CASTLE

The gate rattled open as the sun's first rays peeked over the horizon. Mary's back was straight as a rod, her eyes scanned the approaching men for any sign of danger. She looked every bit the queen she was.

"Your Majesty," the Netherlands soldier said as his footfalls ceased fifteen paces away, "if you want to see the King's brother, now is the time."

Mary turned back toward the castle, toward Francis. He had said that he would not see her off. He would not condone this irresponsible and easily avoidable action. His words would not sway her, but she wished he was here so that she could gather her courage and leave knowing that she had the King of France, but more than that, her husband, behind her.

Mary swallowed her fear and turned back toward the Netherlands soldier. "Lead me to him," she commanded. She mounted a brown stallion and followed him across the expanse of green grass that was the buffer between the castle and the camp. It was the grass that was the noose around their necks.

Mary watched as tents emerged from the nothingness of the morning fog. The orange, white, and blue stripes displayed everywhere made Mary's skin prickle with awareness. Even as the horse slowed to a walk, Mary's eyes still darted everywhere, trying to take in as much information as possible. Any detail could help them win the battle.

"Your Majesty?" the soldier said. She looked down. His hand was extended to help her off her now stationary horse. She took it and jumped down. The frosted grass crackled against her feet as though it was as on edge as she was.

Everywhere she heard the sounds of a coming battle. The perpetual rasp of whetstone against sword was inescapable. The clink of chainmail coming on and off pricked at her ears. Shouts echoed throughout the camp, and, though she could not make out the words they said, she detected tension in their voices.

"Right this way," the soldier said. He led her to the closest tent and pulled open the flap.

The darkness suffocated her eyes for a moment. Mary blinked repeatedly, trying to acclimate her eyes to the new environment. The spots finally cleared from her vision.

There, right in front of her, was Bash. But he wasn't Bash. He wasn't the man she knew from the castle. It was all wrong. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt and, was that blood? It fell from a diagonal slice along the left half of his face, but the blood couldn't have been all his. There was too much of it, and there wasn't a wound it could have come from. It must have been the blood of his comrades left splattered on his skin. This change in Bash was more than the sweat, dirt, and blood, however. It was the way he slumped across the floor against the wooden bars. He was the late king's bastard, but he had always carried himself with pride. The gossip could do nothing against his defenses, but now…this was not that Bash.

"Bash?"

His eyes slipped toward hers. Mary's stomach clenched. His eyes were as dead as stagnant pools of water. Something shifted next to him. Mary's eyes flicked over to find that she had missed a figure dressed in dark clothing that was crouched next to the bars. The figure pushed himself up and turned to her.

His face was cut with harsh angles and his tightly shorn hair did little to soften his features. His dark eyes did not reflect any light.

"So this is the great beauty, Mary Queen of Scots," he said.

Mary gathered herself. "And you are?"

"I am the one who will right the wrongs of your regime. I am William of Orange."

Mary's heart memorized his face. This was the man who had brought such strife into France out of greed. She would never forgive him for that. "You are the man who poses a threat to peace. You should have spoken to my negotiator, borrowed some grain, and left France."

William's laugh was cold, dark, and empty. "Queen Mary, if there is one thing I have learnt from revolution, it is that so long as there is one obstructing the way of what I want, we will always be threats to one another. I want France. To succeed I must cut down any that threaten me. You and your husband will always threaten me."

"If you are trying to say something, just say it," Mary said.

"Does my presence here not say all that needs to be said?" William retaliated.

Anger, rather than fear, burned in Mary's heart. "Then why bother with this whole charade? Why do you allow us the hope of success if you have already decided that you can cut us down with one blow?"

"I find that the people of France have some sort of loyalty to their monarchs. To correct that misplaced loyalty, I must give you all the chance to prove yourselves unworthy."

"And how, exactly, do you propose to do that?"

"Well, Queen Mary, I have a proposal with terms similar to the ones I sent last night. Your country is at stake should you not comply."

"What is this proposal you have?" Mary snapped.

"Mary, may I call you Mary? It is entirely bothersome and unnecessary to address you with a title you will soon lose." William didn't wait for a response from the newly infuriated

queen. "Mary, your husband will come onto field directly outside of the eastern gate and duel for his nation. If he survives the duel, France will be yours. If he does not, then France belongs to Netherlands."

"And why would we agree to such terms? France is ours, we do not have to prove it."

William slammed his hand against the wooden bars. Bash jumped as the bars shook. "Look around, Mary," William said. "This is not your France. This is land that my men occupy, that they can defend, and that they can destroy. I have the force of men, of lives, behind my word. Your castle is weak, defended only by walls that my men will breach if you do not comply and a small number of men. You no longer have a say."

"I am queen," Mary said, raising her voice. "I am queen of not only France, but also Scotland, and I will not be ordered about by a man who thinks that he can seize control of a country simply by holding its monarchs hostage. Francis and I have the loyalty of our subjects because we have worked tirelessly to improve their lives. You believe that simply because your men outnumber ours or that you may win a duel that this loyalty will be transferred to you? You do not understand how a nation works. As of yet, you have _no_ leverage on us. You cannot tell a queen or a king what to do."

William stood there, his hands hanging at his sides. If this war was not already inevitable, Mary had undoubtedly just caused it. He hated her. He hated her confidence, her power, and most of all, he hated that she was right.

"Now," Mary said, "I was promised five minutes with my brother in law."

"I have heard news of France," William said softly. "I have heard about the way you and Francis care for one another. Your love for one another is greater than your love for your country, and that will be your undoing. You will never allow Francis to go out on that field, not because you believe in your ability to defend yourselves, but because you love him. France will look on, and see that its king is unwilling to sacrifice, and that is what will turn France to me." William turned on his heel and stormed out of the tent.

Mary let the fear tinged anger crystalize in her stomach through the silence of the next few seconds. When his footfalls had completely faded, she let out her breath and closed her eyes.

"He's right you know," Bash croaked. Mary looked up at him. He was still sitting there against the bars the same way he had been when she walked into the tent, but now his eyes were bright and determined. He was proud and determined. He was Bash again.

"Bash," she said.

"Let me finish," he said. "Mary, William is right. You can't afford to keep Francis safe in the castle. I've seen him fight, he'll be alright. Just let him know that William sometimes leaves his left side unguarded."

"Francis is your brother."

"He can beat William."

Mary felt the seconds slipping by as they argued. There wasn't time for this. Neither one of them would sway the other, and there was information she needed. "Fine. For France," she said. She felt vile for lying to Bash's face, but she had to. "Bash, tell me what happened."

Bash pushed himself up on his elbows. "That girl," he said, "Sibyla, she led us straight into a trap. She told them we were coming, and if she was helping them, then there's no way that you and Francis can count on the support of your subjects. The duel may be your only way of securing France."

"We've covered that part, Bash. Francis will fight William." Mary was sure that Bash could tell she was lying, but before she could worry more, something caught her thoughts. "Hold on, you said Sybila was the one who betrayed you?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it. They separated her from the rest of us and had her dine with them before she left. They thanked her for bringing us to them."

"And they didn't…use her?" Mary asked, her memory of her own long past experience making her skin crawl.

Bash closed his eyes. "No."

"They sent us her head."

Bash's eyebrows furrowed as thoughts spun around in his head. "Her head? They killed her? Are you sure it was them?"

"William's message came…with her." Mary shuddered to remember how he had defiled Sybila's corpse.

"Then they murdered the one that supported them."

"Yes," Mary said.

Bash's breathing grew heavier as he raged internally at the injustice. "What kind of monsters-"

"Please, Bash. Later. Later we can lament their passing, but for now we need to concentrate on anything that can help us. Did you notice how many men they had?"

"They have more than we do, but not by much. That's probably why another reason why William wants to have this duel. He can't spare men either. But, Mary, he is cruel and he is harsh. He will not hesitate to send all his men to certain death if it means that he can accomplish his goal."

"But we have a castle. We have walls to keep us safe, we have-"

Bash shook his head. "Mary, please, listen to me. I know you. I know how you feel about my brother."

"Why are we still talking about this?" Mary asked.

"Because you are still looking for a way out. You are trying to find a way to keep Francis safe. It is exactly what he would do for you, and it is what has caused the two of you so much trouble. You must stop and you must trust in him."

"Francis is ill." Mary snapped.

Bash's intensity melted away. His face fell, and his determination gave way to concern. "What?" he said. "Is he alright?"

"He's managing, but I see him. He is unsure of his movements. He tries to hide it, but I can see his pain. I doubt that it is anything that he could not be able to combat, given time, but if William presses him to fight now, Francis will surely lose."

"And if he does not fight, then France will be lost," he said quietly. He was no longer pushing for Mary to let Francis fight, but coming to terms with the situation himself.

"And if he loses France, William will have his head," Mary said.

"Queen Mary? It's time for you to return to the castle," a soldier said from outside the tent.

"Just one moment," she said.

"Mary, we cannot fight them. We don't have the men we need. You must find another way. You must save Francis," Bash said, thrusting his hand through the wooden bars to grasp her wrist.

Mary swallowed and nodded. "I know," she said as she placed her hand over Bash's. "I will. I will find a way."

"Queen Mary?" the soldier called again.

"Coming," she said. "Keep yourself and your men safe as long as you can. Right after the duel is scheduled to occur, have all your soldiers break free at once. Arm yourselves as quickly as you can and come to northern castle gate. I will have troops there to join you so that we can rid France of Netherlands."

"My men and I will be there," Bash said. "Good luck."

"Queen Mary," the soldier said, stepping into the tent.

Mary stood up and let Bash's hand fall. He was the man she saw when she had entered

the tent again. Good. "I was just on my way out," she said, brushing off her skirts.

"Wonderful," the soldier said. "Then I will escort you back to the castle now."

"Of course," she said. The soldier led her out, but one moment before she left the tent she glanced back at Bash. The proud, determined Bash nodded at her. They would succeed.

* * *

The setting sun speckled the glasswork in the throne room. "If we gather our men, we may have enough men to overpower their forces. If Bash's troops manage to break free, then we will have a chance of success. We have the advantage of height, and we know this area much better than they do. Of course we will also be fighting for our homes, and we will not give up. No sacrifice is too small," Francis said.

The nobles nodded among themselves, preparing themselves to send out their own men, to put forth their own resources, to fight for France. They may have had their troubles with Francis, but none of them wanted a new, unstable, protestant country to be controlling France.

"Francis, I need to talk to you," Mary said. Francis' last words, _no sacrifice is too small_ , resonated in her mind. She pulled him towards a corner of the room. "We haven't had a moment to ourselves since I've gotten back, and-"

"Mary, it's alright. I understand."

"You…understand?"

Francis nodded and took her hand. "You did what you thought was right. I will not apologize for opposing you, I did it because I love you, but I understand what you were thinking. I'm just grateful that you came back, and that you brought us this information about their troops. Even if we cannot emerge victorious, we now know what we are up against."

"Francis, there's something else. Something I did not tell you in front of others for fear that the nobles would pressure you into making a decision immediately."

"Mary, whatever it is, you can tell me."

Mary swallowed. "Francis, William of Orange made a proposition. He said that if you came out and dueled with him, that the duel would decide the fate of France."

Francis froze. The nobles' chatter seemed to roar in her ears as Mary waited for him to answer. He dropped her hand. "France," he finally said. "A duel for France. And you did not tell me immediately?" His voice rose. "Mary, this could change our whole strategy. This could save lives, hundreds of them, Mary. And you did not think to tell me?"

"Francis, this would be a duel to the death."

"One death, Mary. One instead of hundreds."

"It would be _your_ death, Francis. You may not care, but I do. You matter to me, Francis."

"Mary, this is France we are talking about. This is a country. I understand how you feel, I do, but Mary, love is irrelevant to people like us. If it benefits the country, we must do it."

Mary paused. "Do you remember when you said that to me before?"

"Mary-"

"Do you, Francis?"

Francis paused, the ghost of the feelings of uncertainty and regret that tinged those days momentarily smothering him. He took a breath. "Yes. Yes I do."

"Francis, please. You must understand, this," she said, placing her hand on his chest, "this is so important."

He pulled her to him and held her head to his shoulder. "I love you, Mary." He looked at her. "I love you, but I am king. And I cannot value my own life above the lives of so many others."

"Francis, please,"

"No, Mary. No. I have made my decision, and if William wants to duel for the nation, I will fight."

"Francis, you are unwell," Mary protested.

Francis turned from her. "I can beat him. I have to."

"Francis!"

"Mary, you should leave now," he said. Mary stared at him with wide, open eyes.

"Please, Mary. Do not make this harder on me than it needs to be. Please," he said.

Mary closed her eyes and nodded. "As you wish," she said. His hand trailed hers as she pulled away and fled the throne room.

"My countrymen," she heard Francis say, "there is another way in which I can save the lives of all frenchmen…" She turned another corner, and the sound of Francis' voice faded to nothingness.

This was her fault. This was all her fault. Mary fell against a wall and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth in half an attempt to stop the sobs from coming out. She should never have told him. If she hadn't told him, he would never know, and because of her he might die tomorrow. He might die tomorrow. Mary sunk to the cold, stone floor. He might die.

It wasn't right. He shouldn't be able to be closed like a book, existing only in her imagination or her memory. He couldn't be.

Somewhere in her mind she recognized that he was merely rooms away, but another part of her mind whispered that he was gone. That Francis was going to be dead, and it was all her fault.

* * *

Francis had almost broken when Mary fled, but somehow he held on as he watched her walk away with tears in her eyes. He had struggled through the meeting, telling the nobles of his new plan to save France, hearing them cheer their king, and having to try and smile at them. They looked at him with those dead, staring eyes that would not care whether or not he won the battle if their heads were not also on the chopping block. But it wasn't their eyes that haunted him as he walked down the hallway. No, the eyes that haunted him were Mary's. Her beautiful brown eyes were full of grief and sorrow. She looked as if she was already mourning him. As if he was already dead and she were but staring at a corpse, a hollow shell that whose soul had already been ripped out.

He felt the illness in his bones, and it felt as though his enemy was already hacking at his limbs. The echo of his footsteps seemed to shoot daggers of pain into his mind. He was far into his illness, but he had tried to cover it up as best he could. Francis had remembered the days before his father's death when his mother was desperate to keep visitors to court from discovering King Henry's illness. He remembered his own determination that his father was alright, and he remembered the moment he had realized that his father was a threat to France.

This illness, too, was a threat to France. If it impeded his ability to fight the next day, it could cost him everything. It could cost him his life.

The legacy he would leave would be one of inability. He would have lost France. He had already nearly lost Mary more than once. He had been unable to control even himself in his first weeks as king due to Narcisse's blackmailing.

No one would care about the fact that he had negotiated peace with other nations, won Mary's love, had a beautiful son, or even that he had never meant to harm anyone. He would be cast as inept because people are cruel, and no matter the number of demons he battled or slew, they wouldn't care.

And yet he would go through the gate the next morning in order to protect them, for as of yet they were his people. Many of them were still loyal to him. He had managed to leave a few eggshells of trust left in tact when he had gone tromping through the nests. Perhaps one day, when he was gone and all that was left was his legacy, those eggshells would hatch, and they would protect the stories of negotiating peace, winning Mary, being a father, and his good intentions.

Francis felt a stone settle just between his ribs as his thoughts dug a pit six feet deep.

The sun had gone down long after Mary left, and he still hadn't seen her since their earlier conversation. Without quite knowing where he was going, his feet led him down the hall to his and Mary's chambers. He saw flickering candlelight cast through the crack in the door. So she was there.

His feet dragged. If he didn't get there, he would remain in this sort of limbo, where he knew what pain his actions were causing her but didn't have to see it. But each second he wasted in the hallway was a second less to see her face.

He reached his hand out to open the door when someone pushed from the other side and the door flew open. Francis jumped back startled. An equally as surprised young, ginger haired girl wearing peasants' clothing faced him. As soon as she realized who it was she was facing, she fumbled a curtsey and stumbled out, "Your Majesty."

Francis nodded to dismiss her, and the kitchenmaid darted down the hallway.

Finding that the girl had managed to free the weight from his chest, Francis forced himself to cross the threshold into the room. Mary sat at her desk, her eyes red and swollen.

"Oh, she said, "Francis." She hurriedly wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Mary, are you alright?" he said, sweeping her into his arms with one step.

Mary paused. "Yes," she said. "I'm alright." Francis felt the lie pound into his shoulder.

He pulled her out in front of him. Mary gave him a forced smile that cut Francis more than her tears had. She was so strong.

"Who was that?" he asked, still maintaining the facade that this was a normal night.

"Oh, a kitchenmaid. Her name was Amelie. One of my servants knows her, and she asked to speak with me."

"Here? In your chambers?"

"It was a rather unconventional meeting, wasn't it?" She sucked in a breath. "She came in and she told me of her brother. His name was Tristian. He died. He left to fight in a battle against Netherlands, and he never came back."

She wiped her face one more time. "Enough of that," she said. "Here," she led him to the couch, "I thought we should talk."

"Mary," Francis protested.

"Not about tomorrow," Mary explained. "Not right now, but I want to talk to you. I want to watch you and hear your voice."

Francis placed a hand on her cheek. "You will see me again after the duel," he said.

"I know. I know," Mary said. She pulled his hand down and kissed his palm before placing their hands in her lap. "I still want to talk to you."

"Alright," Francis said. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Tell me about when things were simpler. Talk to me about when we were younger, and we weren't worried about nations."

Francis smiled. "That was a long time ago."

"It seems like eons," Mary agreed.

"Do you remember when you had just returned from the convent, and you saw me in a room up the tower, sharpening swords? I told you that I thought everyone should have one useful skill, and that's why I was sharpening swords and you told me that you knew how to milk a goat?"

"Yes." Mary smiled, and for a moment, Francis couldn't speak. She was so beautiful as she sat there. That was when it hit him, when he finally realized what he was doing. This time it wasn't about France, or his legacy as king. It was about him and his family. If he failed, Mary was going to be alone. He was going to leave her alone.

There would be a funeral, and then after a while Charles would be crowned king, and Mary, well, God knew what Mary would do. She would remarry to protect Scotland, and she was so strong, but their love would tear her apart without him. She would survive, but she would cut out that part of her life, the part that loved the most strongly because that's the part that would hurt her the most.

And what of him? He prayed to God that there was something after life, someplace where he could again meet his love and his family, but nothing was certain. Francis felt a pang in his heart, as though he had already lost. Even if there was a place for them to meet again, he would lose her.

Francis took a deep breath. He was not at the end yet. He yet had a race to run, and he was going to run it for the love that filled his life. Mary would live. France would survive. He was King of France now, and there was no time to wonder about what would happen after life, for that question had infinite answers.

All this sped across his mind as he took in Mary's smile. "That room I was sharpening swords in, where you once stayed as a child, that is where I go when I need peace. I told you that I did not remember that they were your quarters, but I lied. I knew. That they were your rooms is the reason why I can go there and feel calm."

"I'm not sure what it is," he rushed, "but each time I go there I remember a day when my father was having a gala. There were lords and ladies everywhere in all their finery, and the kitchens had been cooking for days on end. The castle was sparkling with silver covered ornaments hanging all around.

"My mother was so excited. She had commissioned new wardrobes made just for this occasion: one for me, one for each of my siblings, and one for you. She doted on the blue dress you wore that day. She designed it herself.

"The gala was in full swing, and we would run around the castle, bowing and curtsying to anyone we met. When we finally entered the ballroom, my father was sauntering around, greeting all the beautiful noble women and ignoring their husbands. It was when he pulled one aside and whispered something in her ear that my mother, red faced and fuming, grabbed the two of us by the hand and led us up to your quarters. She told us to stay there and keep one another company while she and father entertained the guests. She didn't want us coming back down.

"You, Mary, you were so upset that you weren't allowed out of the tower that you climbed on your bed and you started to tear apart the pillow cases in your room. I tried to get you to stop, but you punched me in the face without even looking at me.

"I grabbed you and I turned you around, and there were tears lining your beautiful little face. I didn't know what to do. All you said was, 'I hate when mother shuts me away.'

"I knew you weren't just talking about my mother or yours, but you were talking about both. And you weren't just talking about the mothers shutting you away from them, though that certainly was a part of it, but from where you belonged. Scotland, with its rolling grass fields that caught the morning dew each day and sparkled in the rising sun. The court, with all the powerful lords and ladies to impress, cajole, and connect to. These were the places you belonged, for you truly were already a queen.

"Yet you had been forced from these places, and there was nothing I could do to make that better. All I could do was pull you into a hug and tell you that everything was alright until you had stopped crying.

"As you wiped away your last tear, I told you that we could have our own little gala right here in your room. And you didn't believe me. So I took a handful of the feathers that lay strewn across the bed, and I threw them up in the air.

"Do you remember our party? We rained feathers down from the ceiling, and we danced whatever dances came to mind. We tripped over the steps and made up our own.

"As the last of the feathers came fluttering down for the last time, there was a moment of silence. And we stood there for a moment, just staring at one another with smiles of pure joy on our faces.

"Just at that moment, you saw a flash outside the window, and you jumped down from the bed and I followed you. You pulled the shades open wider and dragged a stool over to below the window. I did the same, and as I climbed up, I saw what you found so enchanting.

"There, over the lake, was a group of fireflies flitting about. They cast the most beautiful reflection on the lake with the tiny waves shuffling them about. At that moment, everything seemed so far away. The gala, the parents, the future responsibility of kingdoms, all of it was a pinprick on the horizon. All that mattered was the fact that there were fireflies dancing above the lake. I looked over at you, and I knew that there was no one else would rather have shared that moment with. I was with you, and that meant that everything was going to be alright. So long as I have you by my side, I will be alright."

Francis blinked away the tears that threatened to gather in his eyes. "That is what I think about when I go there. That is why I always find my way back there whenever I need to stop thinking and worrying. I feel safe there."

Mary wrapped her arms around him, and held him, just held him for a minute. "You are my home, Francis. You are my blue ocean, my calm. You are my love."

She pulled back from him and stared into his cerulean eyes. "My love for you is this inexplicable faith. I don't know how, but I know that you will return to me. You have to." She placed a curl behind his ear and searched his face for every detail she had come to know so well. "You will come back." Her acceptance of the duel seemed a dagger in her own chest, yet she knew that nothing she could say would change his mind. There was nothing that she could do but believe.

She took a breath. "You are right, Francis. I hate it, but you are right. We are rulers, and this is our risk to take. We must put the country before all else. And hearing you speak, I know that you will do everything in your power to return. You will win.

"That girl who I was talking about earlier, the kitchenmaid, Francis, the pain lining this girl's face, it was more than anyone should have to endure. This has to end. You must kill William of Orange.

"She was the one who convinced me. She told me of her brother. He ran off to war without saying goodbye, and she keeps thinking of the days when she would walk to the market to see him, and she can't bear to be there anymore.

"She told me about how he would always wage pretend battles on the grass with soldiers made of twigs when he was young. She told me of his love for his country. She told me that she learned something from her brother. She learned that you must always fight for what you believe in. It was what her brother had always done.

"Francis, I believe in a France that stands tall over her enemies, and I know you believe in this too. I cannot stop you from fighting for what you believe in. I know that now. But I also know that you are going to win. I know that you will win because you believe in what you are fighting for. William thinks that our love won't allow me to let you go, but I know that it is only through our love that I can muster up the courage to send you to do what I know that you can do."

Her determination sent a stream of strength coursing through his veins. He would do as she asked. He would fight for France, but he would fight for Mary. He had to come back to her, and he would.

"I love you, Mary," he said.

"I love you too," she said. "I love you, Francis."

She couldn't help but send a silent prayer. _Please don't let this be the last night I have to say it to him. Don't let it be the last._


	4. The Duel

**_Author's note: Brief update, I finished all the things I needed to finish which gave me a bunch more time to write. I hope you enjoy it. This is going to be the second to last chapter._**

* * *

The sun rose the next day in a perfectly normal fashion. A bluejay came and sat outside their window to sing the song of morning.

Mary did not open her eyes when she woke up. This was where she wanted to be. Forever. Just her in Francis' warm arms.

She felt his hands running through her hair and beneath her his chest rose and fell softly. Mary knew that he was savoring this moment too. He was committing every detail to memory so that he could always know what he was fighting for.

On his fifth inhale Mary heard a rasp in his chest. Fear clenched her heart and her eyes sprang open. She sat up and turned to face Francis. He smiled a calm smile at her, but she could see the pain of the future and the pain of the present already crowding his eyes. She did not speak but lay back down so that they could have one more moment of peace and happiness together before they answered the bluejay's call. Francis draped an arm over her, and Mary clutched at it. He squeezed her tightly and pressed a kiss into her shoulder blade. Slowly Francis retracted his arm and pushed himself off the bed.

One breath later, Mary joined him to silently prepare for the day. She took off her nightgown and sidled into her corset as Francis put on his undershirt. She walked over to him and offered her back to him. He took the corset strings and laced them up for her. A servant could have done it, but she wanted it to be him. She wanted this time to be with him.

She struggled into her dress and heard chainmail clink behind her. She finished her battle with the last button just as Francis' sword slid into its sheath. She walked over to Francis and grabbed his hand to lead him through the door. Just as her hand was on the handle of the door, Francis grabbed her shoulder.

"Mary, wait," he said, finally breaking the silence. He spun her around and leant down to kiss her. Her whole body arched to meet him, and when he finally pulled away it felt as though a part of her soul remained with him. "Alright," he said. "It's time."

* * *

Catherine de Medici cursed herself for raising her son to be a man of integrity. She and Henry had taught him that to be king Francis must be willing to make sacrifices, but she never imagined that this would be a voluntary sacrifice he would be forced to make for his country.

Even now he rode out on his father's steed to face his enemy, the brute who had imposed himself on France. There would have been no need for Francis to go had they not sent all those men to the border in the first place. She had been so blind and now they were cut off. Of course this was her fate. She had all her systems in place, all her fallbacks and her secret plans, but now they were of no use to her. Not one of them could save her son.

Catherine de Medici was powerless to do anything but watch from the top of the east gate. Halfway between the two camps Francis stopped. That cursed William of Orange was already there waving his colors about as though he already ruled the place.

The two men dismounted. "These are the agreed upon terms," Francis announced to the crowd of spectators on both sides, "each man shall be granted a sword, a shield, and whatever sort of armor he wishes."

Mary inched closer to Catherine, seeking someone to be with as she watched Francis fight for France and for his life. The cold Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici, reached out and pulled Mary to her. She squeezed Mary's arm as Mary squeezed hers, and it was impossible to tell which of the two women exerted a more powerful grip.

"He who wins wins France. The loser gets nothing.

"This is a fight to the death."

Silence fell throughout the crowds and heartbeats all around quickened.

Francis and William walked toward one another and shook hands. Even if this was not a

conflict arisen out of gentlemanly greed, it would be resolved with dignity. They both took four steps back before drawing their swords.

"The duel will commence now," William announced.

Catherine's heart jumped, but all was quiet. She didn't know what she had expected, perhaps for William to lunge the instant the duel started, but the two men merely circled one another. Their knees were bent and their swords angled across their faces in a protective stance as their shields covered their body. Neither was willing to make the first move.

William began to move forward, his feet carrying him barely an inch closer to Francis with each rotation, but the change in mood was evident. William was crouching more like the predator waiting for the right moment to strike the regal prey. Francis did not back away.

Catherine's fingers were now imprinting white half moons into Mary's arm, but Mary didn't even seem to notice.

In a blur of cold grey, William's arm flashed forward and struck the first blow. Mary's gasp coincided with the clang of metal against metal as Francis blocked William's sword.

The time of circling assessment was over. Francis unleashed a flurry of attacks, cutting first this way then that, an impressive show of skill for even for one not suffering from an illness. But it seemed that no matter where Francis' blade ended up it met William's shield.

William smiled and lifted his sword over his head to attack. That was where William made his first mistake. Francis sprang at the opening and cut directly at where William's chest plate matched up with his right hip. William cried out, and Catherine knew that Francis had scored a hit. She smiled. The first blood was theirs.

The blow infuriated William. He whirled his sword to hack at Francis' knees, but Francis sidestepped. William was relentless. He stepped forward and jammed his shield into Francis' face.

The crowd inhaled sharply. Francis stumbled back but caught himself and stood straight. His helmet was dented and likely pressing in at his face at an uncomfortable angle. Without releasing either his sword or his shield Francis pulled off his helmet in one practiced motion.

Mary pressed herself into Catherine's side at the sight of blood running down Francis' face.

William, seeming to have realized that slamming his shield into his opponent's face was not a gentlemanly move, pulled off his own helmet to compensate and even out the duel. The two shining helmets rolled to a stop on the green grass.

Francis wiped away the blood dripping down his face leaving a streak of crimson across his cheek. He stepped back and started circling again, never giving William an opening.

He lunged, right at a spot William had left unguarded, and then - he faltered. His step stopped halfway through and his supporting leg buckled. William had been unprepared to defend himself before, so he had no time to do anything but stare in surprise. Francis, now kneeling on the soft grass, shoved his sword into the earth as though it were a cane and pushed himself upright to resume a fighting position.

His form was off. Francis' shoulders were stooped and he had the slightest limp on his left leg. No one else except for Mary could have seen the difference in Francis' posture, but Catherine could tell.

"Francis," Mary whispered, her breaths coming heavy.

Catherine couldn't watch this. She couldn't watch William slaughter her child. She had known it was a risk, but Francis had decided that it would be a risk he would take. Well if Francis was willing to take risks, they had to be willing to take risks too.

Catherine pulled her arms from Mary's grasp and grabbed Mary by the shoulders. "Mary," she said. Mary's gaze was still fixed on the battle in the field. Catherine slapped Mary's face. "Mary!" Finally Mary's brown eyes snapped to meet Catherine's. "Mary, we can't leave him out there." Mary looked back out to where Francis and William were still exchanging blows. "Mary!" Catherine grabbed Mary's chin and forced her to look at her. "Please, Mary, we need a plan. Mary, we can't do anything from here, but we need to help him. He can't be left out there to fight William all alone."

Mary's eyes darted and she whispered something under her breath. This time Catherine did not drag her attention back again. She could almost hear Mary's revelations. Mary whispered to herself again. "Yes," she said. "I must fight for what I believe in." Mary turned to the servants. "Amelie?" She yelled. The servants stirred, but no red haired girl stepped forward. "Someone go fetch Amelie, and be quick about it!" Mary said. "Tell her to meet me in the armory."

Mary turned and started down the steps, but Catherine snagged her arm. "Why are you going to the armory?" she asked.

"Come with me," she said. "I'll need someone to help me anyways, but I could do with your advice." Catherine looked unconvinced. "Please, Catherine, we don't have much time."

Catherine looked back at the battle field. Each clash of swords sent a spike of fear in her heart. Catherine finally relented. "Alright, but whatever you're doing you must do quickly."

Mary spared her a quick smile before racing down to the armory.

* * *

Amelie sprinted to the armory. No one had told her what she was wanted for, but they told her that Queen Mary wanted her, and so she ran. But the castle was large and she had only really acquainted herself with the living quarters, the dining halls, and the kitchens. She turned left. Dead end.

She spun around, hair whipping about her face. The armory. The armory was for the knights and the squires so perhaps it was near the stables? She began sprinting down the wooden servant's stairs, it was a more direct route. At the bottom of the stairs she flung open the door only to come face to face with — Jerard.

They both stood there, staring at each other in shock.

"Jerard," Amelie said, unsure if the word was a greeting, an accusation, or a question.

Jerard cleared his throat. "Amelie," he said, "the Queen-"

"Yes, the armory," Amelie interrupted, remembering where she was and what she had to do. "I should go," she said, and hurried down the hallway.

"Amelie," Jerard called. She turned. He gave her a weak smile. "You're going the wrong way."

Amelie blushed from embarrassment and returned to where he was standing. "Can you show me the way?" He nodded and smiled. "We do have to hurry though," she said.

"Of course," Jerard said and then grabbed her hand. "To the amory."

They sped down the corridors, the windows whizzing past and the perspiration between their palms mingling. He pulled her out of the castle, through the courtyard, and down a set of steps to stop before a wooden door.

Jerard paused for a moment, caught his breath, and uttered, "here."

Amelie nodded to him. "Thank you," she said. There was more to say, more than she knew how to articulate, but the moment had fled as they stood before the door. "Alright," she said and turned to the door.

"Amelie," Jerard said once more. Amelie looked at him. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry. For the way that I acted."

Tristain. The word was a ghost of salty tears as it lay on her tongue. She swallowed and nodded at him. Jerard smiled and left.

Amelie pulled open the door.

Chaos loomed before her. More intimidating than the metal spikes and razor thin edges of the swords was the mess in the room and the two women who were causing it.

"Is this right?" asked the woman swathed in chain mail.

"No, no," the other woman said. "That's the hole for your arm, not your head."

Amelie stood there, waiting to be recognized. The chainmail slid onto the first woman's head. Amelie took a small step back, for it was the Queen of France. "Amelie!" Mary said. The second woman turned, and the face snapped into Amelie's memory. This was the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici.

"This is the kitchenmaid?" Catherine asked with obvious judgement in her voice.

Amelie blushed. If she had known that two influential women would be not the other side of the door, she would have taken a moment to tidy up a bit.

"Yes, Catherine, this is her," Mary said protectively. "Thank you for coming, Amelie," Mary said.

Amelie curtsied. "Your Majesty," she said with a bowed head.

"Amelie, I know that this must look absurd, but you told me something last night and that stayed with me. You told me to fight for what I believe in."

Catherine stepped forward. "I tried to convince her not to, that we could find be another way-"

"Not in time. Not another way that would guarantee his safety, which, even as we stand here squabbling, is precarious. I need to get out there, Catherine," Mary said. She turned to Amelie. "I believe in Francis. I believe in his courage, his valor, his integrity. I believe that he is the best king that France could have. Tell me, Amelie. I need you to tell me that I should fight for him."

Amelie swallowed. This was the Queen of France. And somehow her word, a kitchenmaid's word, could determine the queen's fate.

Amelie had said that, hadn't she. Hadn't she told Mary that she wished that she had fought for her brother to stay? Wouldn't she have given anything, anything so that he might have stayed. So that he might have lived?

Amelie wanted the queen to live. She wanted to have no doubt that Mary would continue to be the Queen of France until the day Amelie herself died, for now, Amelie believed in her queen.

But she couldn't impose the pain she herself had felt onto Mary. She couldn't give Mary that feeling of being torn apart by unseen forces. Amelie could not force the pain onto Mary because she knew what that pain was. It was pain that tainted every happy memory, everything that had once made life worth living.

"Do you love him?" Amelie asked. Mary's eyebrows drew together. "I don't mean as your king," Amelie said, "but as your husband. Do you love him."

Tears pricked Mary's eyes. "Yes," she whispered. "I do. For all that we've been through, all our trials and tribulations, everything that we have put one another through for France, for each other, I love him. I love him."

Courage filled Amelie's heart and she stepped up to the Queen of France. She held Mary's shoulders gently. "Then finish putting on your armor, go out there, and fight for him."

* * *

The unfamiliar weight of the armor pounded into Mary's shoulders with every hoofbeat. The horse beneath her galloped away the distance between the castle and the battle until all she could hear was the horse, her own breathing, and the duel before her. This was a balance of risks. No one could know it was her, but if she didn't go, Francis could die, and Mary could never accept it if she had been able to prevent his death. The duel loomed before her and knowledge of everything else but this melted from Mary's mind.

Francis and William were circling one another once more, and she could see the strain the duel had taken on the two of them. Their shields lay discarded in the field, each covered with scratches, and they were even punctured in some areas. There were new wounds on each man. Every drop of blood she saw on William raised her spirits, and every drop she spied on Francis made her own blood cry for vengeance against the man who had hurt her Francis. Francis looked awful. The dried blood from his nose remained stretched across his face, and his limp was even more exaggerated. The pain from his illness had evidently worsened. He was in no shape to continue dueling. The two men watched one another warily, but they both eyed her.

She dismounted from the steed and approached the duel. Her helmet fully covering her face, neither one knew who she was, only which direction she had come from and thus who she represented. "Stop," she said in the lowest voice she could muster. As much as she loved him, she knew that Francis could not know it was her immediately. If he knew he would send her back before she could utter her offer. "I claim second," she announced loud enough only for the two men to hear her. "I will fight in my king's stead."

William laughed at Francis. "Your own countrymen do not trust you to win. They see you as so incapable that they do not even think you can fight," he sneered.

Francis' face flushed red with anger. "Go back," he said to Mary. "Your assistance is unneeded."

"I have claimed second. It is up to William of Orange to decide whether or not to give it to me," she said.

"Go back, I told you. I am your king and you will do as I say."

"I have claimed second," Mary repeated. "According to the rules of the duel my claim cannot be retracted. If the opponent does not wish to fight me, he and only he can send me back."

"Your man is correct, _King_ Francis," William said, making a mockery of the title.

Mary turned toward William. "Will you fight me then, William of Orange?"

William paused to see the anger on Francis' face before saying, "Yes. Yes I will fight you rather than your king. But," he said, "as your king has received a fresh knight to come fight in his stead, I, too, may summon another to fight for me." William's eyes narrowed. "Before I do that, however, I demand to see your face. I deserve to know who will be fighting for France."

Mary's stomach clenched. There was no turning back now. The three of them stood in a triangle facing one another, and Francis was already furious at this unknown knight. This was all for him. She was fighting for him. She believed in him.

She lifted the eye guard from the helmet and looked him right in the eye. "William of Orange," she said in her normal voice, "I, Mary Queen of France and Scotland, will fight for my husband."

Francis' face dropped. A sheet of ice rolled over his face, and he turned pale. "Mary," he said, "Mary, no. Don't do this. You can't do this."

She didn't look at him. She couldn't. She knew what she would find there. Pain, betrayal, and worst of all worry. "Will you fight me yourself or summon a second, you coward," she jeered. Their plan hinged on this, William himself must fight. No one else could know that she was the mysterious knight.

William smiled a wolf-like smile. "The Queen of France. This is even better than I had hoped. Two royals with one sweep of my blade. And a woman nonetheless," he said. "The best your castle had to offer, no doubt," he said to Francis. "Likely she's only one that would sacrifice herself for her king. Is loyalty in France really this weak? Perhaps I shouldn't have bothered with this duel in the first place, I could have just waltzed into your throne room and sat on your throne. That's all I would need for your nobles to bow to me anyways."

"You bastard," Francis spit at William.

"William," Mary said, dragging his attention back to her. "If you think that you have already won why not fight me yourself?"

He looked her up and down and, though she was insulated by thick armor, Mary shuddered under his revolting gaze. He smiled his cold smile and returned his stare to her eyes. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I think I will fight you myself."

Fear instead of anger had returned to Francis' heart. "Mary, please don't do this. Mary, I'll be fine. Mary, this is not a way to save me or France. You could be killed. Mary, please," he begged.

Finally Mary allowed her eyes to reach Francis'. He was so beautiful. He was always so beautiful. This was what she was fighting for. "You have always protected me, Francis," she said softly. "It is time for me to return the favor."

She turned to William. "I am ready," she said.

"Mary-"

"I am afraid, King Francis, that the decision is not yours," William said. "Please kindly step aside."

"No," Francis said.

William swept his sword up to Francis' neck. "Step aside."

"Do it, Francis," Mary said, her throat tight. "If you don't he wins by default and we will both die anyway."

Francis looked first at William, and then at Mary. She nodded at him. The look he gave her as he moved away was one of such raw pain that she nearly snapped. She barely held herself in place and standing upright.

William saw none of this exchange. He immediately turned to the crowds and announced, "A second has come forward to fight for King Francis. I will remain fighting for myself." A roaring cheer erupted from the Netherlands' camp. As William basked in the glory he had concocted for himself, Mary stepped over to Francis.

"I'm sorry, Francis, I am. But I had to do this. Just… if the worst comes to worst, please don't look."

"Mary-"

"Please, Francis." She let one hand linger on his shoulder as she stepped away, and eventually even that small touch was gone. She stood ready to fight for France, and for Francis. Mary was ready to kill him.

"Are ready m'lady?" William asked her.

Mary didn't event him finish his mock bow before she stepped forward and swung her first blow. The shock of her strength and her speed hit William nearly as hard as her sword. The sharp bite of metal against metal reverberated throughout her shoulder and jarred her teeth.

His eyes narrowed and he charged. He charged her as he would not have dared charge a man. His shoulders barreled forward head on. His center of gravity was moving in a perfectly straight line, making it easy for her to side step the moment before he reached her, leaving only her sword in the air waiting for him to arrive. He crashed into Mary's sword in another clang of battle.

A line of red crisscrossed his face, but the impact of him on her sword left Mary reeling. She had miscalculated how much of his motion would move into her arm. The sword and then her arm left her completely off balance. She extended her other arm to balance her weight, but William turned just in time to catch that arm with the tip of his sword.

Mary took in a sharp breath as she felt his sword graze her skin. The pain was not awful, but it was present. Rather than let it distract her, Mary focused in on her pain. When she did that everything that mattered was closer. Each breath William took Mary heard. Every step he took she saw. And Francis. Francis was there too.

Not as the man standing next to the battle watching it, but as the man behind her, guiding her every movement and whispering tactics in her ear. _Target areas: upper arms, shoulders, torso, and thighs._ Francis' teaching words came back to her now. _Aim there. That is where the armor is the weakest and where you can do the most damage in a fight._

Attuned to the details of the duel, Mary scanned William's body for evidence of Francis' previous blows. Scratches stretched across the metal plate that sat atop William's torso and upper arms. Francis had attacked there to no avail. _Alright, Mary. What about his shoulders?_

She lifted her gaze and saw a splash of crimson where two metal plates connected right above William's shoulder. That was a target.

 _And thighs, Mary? What about his thighs?_ Mary didn't need to look to see what she'd find. She was already replaying the sequence of strikes Francis had taken to connect a swing with William's hip. That was another target area.

 _Anything else?_ William wasn't wearing all the armor she was. He wasn't wearing his helmet. It still lay in the grass next to Francis, another discarded player of the fight. That made three target areas.

Mary let the pain from her arm go, and the world came slamming back into her.

William straightened himself and stood at his full height. Mary raised her blade above her head with her other arms crossing the sword at its hilt to form an 'X'. Her sword extended from her arm like a viper poised to strike just the way Francis had shown her that morning so long ago when they had first learned of William.

She lunged forward and struck out at William, curving her blade as she went down to hit him perfectly at the connection between his shoulder plate and his chest plate. With a twang, half of William's shoulder plate fell off.

A memory snapped into place. The other morning when she had met with Bash, he had told her something. He had told her that William left his left side unguarded.

The moment of thought had cost her a second, and in that second William attacked. His swings were wary now, a quick in and out. He wasn't underestimating her anymore. His sword spun and bot at her ankles. The cut on her arms was quickly joined by others. Her steps carried her back as William pressed forward.

Left. Left. His left side was unguarded. Mary had to get a blow there. She raised her sword to strike, but his sword caught hers and pushed it back. She staggered back, her arms, back, her whole body straining against William as he pushed down on her. She turned her head to look for any advantage, scanning for anything.

Her eyes lighted on Francis and the vein on his forehead straining in worry. For her. She couldn't die. She couldn't do that to him.

Resolve hardened in her heart, and Mary immediately stopped pushing against William's blade. Half a second before his blade fell on her head, Mary twirled into him and jabbed her sword behind her, into the left side of William's armor. She felt the armor give and the sickening slide of her sword into his flesh followed by his cry of pain.

She pulled her sword from him and whirled around to face him once more. William's face a was plastered with pain and blood was falling freely from his wound. William was dying.

But she wasn't done yet. She saw it in William's eyes. The cold reptilian look of pure hatred he cast at her bored into her skull. He stumbled back to where they had come from, back to Francis. Mary's blood ran cold. He wouldn't dare try.

Francis was standing unprepared, now fully leaning on his sword. Mary stared at him, her eyes wide with terror. "Go!" She yelled. Francis grabbed the hilt of his sword with both hands and tried to wrestle it from the ground. "Francis, go! Your sword doesn't matter, just go!"

That was when she realized. He wasn't leaving. He wasn't ever going to leave her. He knew that if he left William would find some way to kill her, and Francis wasn't going to let that happen. She charged forward too late. William stood before Francis, his sword raised while Francis still stood there trying to prepare for the battle he didn't realize was already in front of him. Her feet couldn't carry her there fast enough. William's sword fell, and Mary couldn't stop herself from waiting to watch the imminent collision between William's blade and Francis' neck.

But the collision never came. The sound of blade against bone never came. Instead Francis stood taller than William, his sword against William's. Mary let out the breath she had been holding. He was alright. He was going to be alright.

And he was. Until he faltered.

Francis' left leg gave, and he stumbled backward. William pursued him, convinced of his victory. Mary sprinted, and one moment before William raised his sword a second time she crashed into him not with her sword but with the full force of her body.

William stepped aside twice to gain his balance, but his third his step was not stable. He stepped in his own cast aside helmet and fell. He cried out in pain. His ankle was twisted at an unnatural angle. William tried to push himself to his feet but fell back. His sword lay just out of reach. He tried to crawl over to the sword, but Francis' boot fell on his wrist.

Mary approached him and hoisted her blade. William closed his eyes. Mary pulled her arms back and swung.

A second passed, and then a minute. William of Orange opened his eyes. Mary's sword was leveled right at his neck so that a big inhale would slice his skin. He stared at the sword, then at Francis, and finally his eyes lighted on Mary.

"You, William of Orange, will never win," she said. "This duel is ours. Yes, there were questionable moments, but the outcome is this. You attempted to harm one who was no longer involved in the duel, and we spared your life. France has no quarrel with the newly formed Netherlands but the one you yourself have forged. Repent, accept your defeat, and we will leave you to your own nation. We will never have to see one another again."

William spat on the ground. "You will never let me go," he said. "I have seen your face, and I will tell all who it was that really fought in the place of France's weak king."

"Watch your tongue lest you lose it!" Mary said as she placed the flat of her sword just beneath William's chin, forcing him to expose his pale neck. "William, we will let you go because you will not dare speak of this encounter. Not the least because if you did you would merely be shaming yourself, but also because should you breathe word of this to a single living person, France will come to Netherlands with all her might, with all of her soldiers and all of her wrath, and you will have wished you never set eyes on this land.

"This is your choice, William. Life and a free country, or death and your nation in flames."

William swallowed. He took in a breath.

"Life," he finally said. "Life and freedom."

"Let it be so," Mary said and lifted her blade. She sheathed her sword and turned to face

Francis. "Francis-" she said.

"Not now, Mary," he said. "Today let us have won. We can talk tomorrow. Today we did it. You did it." Mary smiled at him. "For now though you must go, before anyone discovers your identity." He was proud. He was happy and proud, but he was angry too. Mary knew he was right. Now was not the time. They would talk later.

Mary nodded and stepped back to her horse. She mounted the steed and set her straps. She looked back at Francis. He nodded, and Mary pushed her heels into the horse's side.

Francis watched Mary disappear into castle. She would make it back to an inconspicuous place safely for, if he knew anything, his mother was bound to have had something to do with this, and his mother never left a plan unfinished.

Facing the crowd instead of the gate, Francis cried out a mighty, "France is the victor!"

Cheers erupted from the castle, but nothing matched the relief he felt in his heart.

It was over. It was all over.


	5. Warrior Queen

**_Author's note: This chapter uses some dialogue that originally appeared in the show, so I don't own those or the show. Unfortunately. Anyways, thank you so much for this story. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it._**

* * *

His hand sore from signing all the documents, not to mention his groaning muscles from the fight the day before, Francis walked back to his and Mary's chambers.

So much had happened over the last few days, and all the turmoil had left his head spinning. There was, of course, the expectation that he would be just as he always had. France needed to appear stable in this time, unthreatened by the Netherlands troops. As king he would have to spearhead this appearance. He had done his best to keep his head throughout the negotiations. Bash and his men returned to the castle with a feast waiting for them. Francis had outlined the best deal for France and bargained with William over the last few days.

As much as the experience had impacted Francis, the duel had completely changed the head of Netherlands. William was still fiery but in a subdued manner. He no longer blazed with anger each time Francis caught his gaze, but bowed his head in deference. It had not proved to be a hard task to convince William's generals that they should return home. Many had questioned the expedition in the first place, and they were all anxious to see their families as Francis was anxious to greet his.

Mary had occupied his thoughts ever since the moment she had raised her visor. He had known that she was unpredictable. He had known that she was brave. It just wasn't until that point that he had known exactly how far she would go to protect him.

She should never have done it. She gambled the future of France and Scotland. She gambled her own future. That image of her brown eyes peering through the visor was a picture that would follow Francis around for the rest of his days. That was the moment he had felt the most helpless and alone.

Francis' hand paused on the handle of the door to the royal chambers. He had not talked with Mary after the duel yet; Francis had demanded that Nostradamus keep her in the infirmary for a night to make sure that her injuries did not develop any infections, and a deluge of negotiations for the treaty had immediately drowned him in politics. He hadn't had the time to visit her no matter how much he wished he had.

He pushed open the door, but, contrary to his expectation, Mary was not yet there. The fading sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting the dust dancing in the air. A ray of sunlight cast an orange glow on a note left on the desk. Francis closed the door behind him softly and approached the desk. He lifted the note and began to read.

 _Francis,_

 _There is much that is yet unsaid between us. I regret not being here to tell you everything when you read this, but I hope that this message will begin to convey what I need to tell you._

 _I need you to know that I did not fight because I had lost faith in you, but because your love is my most precious possession and because I know that you are a great king. I couldn't let you go._

 _It was only because of our combined strength that we were able to win. We are stronger when we are together. The sword I carried onto the field was yours. It was the one you altered for me and the one you taught me to fight with. For that I must also say thank you._

 _There is much more to say, I know, but this was a good start._

 _Love,  
_ _Mary_

"Mary," he whispered. She was brilliant and amazing and beautiful. Her intentions, as usual, were good, but she had risked too much.

Francis heard the door open and turned to face Mary, her bandaged arm hidden beneath her cloak. She stared at him, trying to discern his thoughts to no avail. She finally padded over to stand in front of him and waited for him to speak.

"Why did you do it?" he finally asked.

Gathering her cloak around her protectively, Mary said, "I did it for France."

Francis could always tell when she was lying or telling only a half truth based on whether or not she was biting her lip lightly. She was. "No, Mary, you didn't. You did it for me," he said. He grabbed her wrists and pressed them against his chest. "Why, Mary?" he asked. "You knew that if they found out it was you it would undermine the whole war effort. Everything would have fallen apart, and for what?"

Mart wrested her wrists back from his grasp. "I knew that he would kill you," she said.

"What will the nobles say should they find out?" Francis demanded. "What would other countries say? That I am so weak that I cannot fight my own battles? That my queen has to go fight them for me?"

"And what's wrong with that?" Mary retorted.

"The issue is not with my pride, Mary, it's about my reputation. It's about France's reputation. If I am weak, France is weak."

Mary reached up and rested her hand on Francis' chest. "This war has proven that neither of those statements are true. Francis, stop worrying. What has been done is done."

"You risked Scotland and the stability of France," Francis accused. Mary swallowed and pulled her hand down from his chest. "Why did you do it?"Francis asked. "Mary, why did you go?"

Mary met his eyes with a look of ferocity so full of determination and love that Francis nearly stepped back. "You told me once that you would do anything for me," Mary said, "even die for me. What makes you think that I wouldn't do the same for you?"

"Mary-"

Her footing gained, Mary pushed on. "Francis, there is nothing I wouldn't do to keep you safe from harm. There are so, so many ways you could get hurt, and I can't control any of it. I can't keep you safe. This was the only way I could find to make sure that you survived."

"But you could have died!" Francis interjected.

"But you would have lived, Francis! I will do anything to make it so that you can live. I would give away all of my years so that you could live," Mary said.

Francis went quiet for a moment. His head spun with the words they were saying, the promises they were making. For a moment he let his mind wander into a possible future where the promises were carried out, where Mary did die for him, and his stomach turned. "What of the years I would live?" Francis asked. "Mary, can't you see that I would be lost? My years, they mean nothing without you by my side."

Mary diverted her gaze. She did not like talking about this either despite how close they had come to this imagined reality. "You would live," she repeated. "I never wanted to cause you pain, but years would wash away the pain, and maybe one day you would be able to find love again. Francis, you would have found away because that is who you are. You never give up. And someday, someone else would love you for it. Perhaps someday you would let yourself love them too."

Francis stepped forward to close the distance between them. Each word he said carried the weight of the world. "I will never love anyone the way I love you. Real love never

fades. Not truly. You are my love and my life. Mary, you are my light."

This was the truth of the matter. No matter how much Francis wanted to believe that his reasons were more justifiable, that his perspective was grounded in what was best for his country and hers, Francis knew that his motives were her motives. It was their love that drove them to stand facing one another, afraid that one day they might lose one another.

Perhaps. Perhaps he could forgive her for loving him as he hoped she could forgive him for loving her.

Francis reached a tentative hand up and pulled a strand of her hair behind her ear. His hand hovered there for a moment devoid of purpose but for savoring the feeling of being next to her skin before he lowered it.

"You were right," he said. "There is much to say, but I believe that you already know much of what I want to say." Mary's mouth twitched upwards in consent. "Yet there are still things I need to say because you do not yet know them and because the words must come from my lips instead of swirling in my thoughts.

"While I do not completely agree with your actions, I am proud of you. You fought with such skill and with such grace, and by merely charging out onto the field you proved your bravery. And again you are right. The past is in the past and there is nothing I can do about it now but to be grateful that things turned out the way that they did. I suppose the most important thing for me to say is I am sorry, I love you, and I forgive you."

Mary reached out and enveloped herself in his embrace. Her strong arms pulled themselves around Francis' body and held him as he held her. It was suddenly much too real that they had both nearly died, and Francis held her even tighter. He stroked a hand through her hair and whispered, "You are my warrior queen."


End file.
